


Now we both together

by kate_the_reader



Series: His sun [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Established Relationship, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, The first months of the rest of their lives, They take a trip, religious musings, sex both earthly and and transcendent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: They’ve been caught up in their own bubble of exploration, but Aziraphale and Crowley need to decide what they will do, now that they’re on their own side and out of their old jobs.First, Crowley misses Aziraphale’s shop, and they need a bed there.“Crowley pushes Aziraphale — gently, firmly, relentlessly — back into the mound of the bedclothes and leans down over him and kisses him intently. And then he straightens up and undoes Aziraphale’s many buttons: his waistcoat and his shirt and his old-fashioned trouser flies. “So many buttons,” he grumbles, but Aziraphale just smiles, he knows Crowley likes the fact that the many buttons draw this part out and out and out, filling them both with delicious shivery anticipation.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: His sun [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480562
Comments: 81
Kudos: 103





	1. new bed

**Author's Note:**

> They are still in the _His sun_ ’verse and some elements will make more sense if you have read the earlier stories.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my dear friend and beta, mycitruspocket, who is a wonderful writing support. I couldn’t do it without you, darling.

"Don't you miss your shop?"

Crowley is half asleep. Aziraphale is leaning against his pillows reading, one hand idly playing with Crowley's hair.

"What's that, my dear?"

"Don't you miss the shop?"

Aziraphale looks up. "A little, perhaps. But we wouldn't have this there." He waves his hand, taking in the bed, the room, with its clothes rack in the corner, his beautiful robe hanging where he can see it, the bedside table where Crowley’s most exquisite orchid yet stands next to the silver hairbrush, and the mirror. He leans over to press a kiss to Crowley's temple.

Crowley turns his face to kiss Aziraphale’s mouth.

"I know. I miss it though. I miss you in it. Let's go there tomorrow."

"You miss me in the shop?"

"Yes — pottering, humming to yourself, dusting your books — I miss it."

"Oh, Crowley."

The next morning, they go to the shop. It's just the same, dust motes dancing in the light from the windows, the scent of old books — which is part of the scent of Aziraphale but not the whole of it — the reds and browns and tans of the leather bindings, the warm wood gleam of the floors and bookshelves. It's soft-edged and round-cornered and dimly lit and Crowley feels himself relax in a different way than he does in his flat, even with Aziraphale there.

Aziraphale walks down the aisles of shelves, trailing his fingers across the spines of the books. He's smiling that soft smile, the one Crowley loves. "I have missed it," he says. "Thank you, my dear. But the dust! I shall have to do a bit of cleaning."

Crowley could just snap his fingers. He has no compunction about using that magic, but as with his plants, sometimes it's better to really do something, instead of just making it happen. And besides, Aziraphale bustling about among his books, that's what he wants. 

"I'll help you, shall I?"

"No, no, you don't have to do that."

"What if I want to?"

Aziraphale's face melts into one of Crowley's other favourite smiles. "Alright, my dear. Thank you."

Dusting is rather tedious but Aziraphale has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and he has a smudge on his forehead so Crowley doesn't really mind. He is glad, though, when Aziraphale looks round, pleased, and says: "There, now it knows I still care."

Crowley wouldn't be surprised if the place was semi-sentient, had grown a heart over the centuries it has been Aziraphale's. He tends to have that effect.

"Spot of lunch?" he asks, wiping the smudge from Aziraphale’s face with his thumb.

"Temptation accomplished," says Aziraphale, kissing Crowley quickly and starting to roll down his sleeves. You can't have everything, Crowley supposes. "Sushi?"

"We should get a bed," Crowley says, when the last grain of rice and shred of pickled ginger has been eaten.

"But we have one."

"Not at your place."

"I like our bed."

"So do I. But I miss the shop. I don't just want to visit it."

“Oh, my dear. I didn’t realise.”

“It’s soft,” he tries to explain. “It’s not all hard surfaces.”

“I thought you liked that.”

“So did I. Maybe I just thought I should.”

Aziraphale reaches for his hand. “Shall we go and buy a bed now?”

It’s for Aziraphale’s flat, so he should choose, but he only says: “I don’t know anything about beds, you choose. Except nothing carved, my dear. Yours is very fine, but it is a bit hard on the spine.”

Crowley knows what would be perfect. He guides Aziraphale to a very upscale furniture shop, taking his hand as they browse among the many choices.

“Do you gentlemen have an idea of what you want?” asks a salesperson, gliding over with a smile. Aziraphale blushes slightly. Crowley holds his hand more tightly, telling him without words: “It’s alright, we’re safe here. No one will judge.” 

“We want,” he tells the salesperson, “a headboard like the most comfortable sofa back. Velvet, pale blue velvet.” He can see Aziraphale leaning against this headboard, his floral robe a shade darker, his pale hair like a cloud in a spring sky.

“Do you know, I think we have one like that exactly!”

“I saw it in  _ Architectural Digest,” _ Crowley says, a little fib. He had seen one, but this shop didn’t have it in his precisely desired shade of blue until he mentioned it.

When he sees it, Aziraphale says: “It’s lovely, my dear, but do you think it will fit up the stairs? They’re rather narrow, you know. Not like yours.”

“Don’t worry, angel, I’ll sort it.”

The salesperson smiles at them, indulgent if a bit condescending, and Crowley knows what he thinks he sees, a rakish younger man with his fussy older boyfriend. He knows what they  _ are, _ so it doesn’t really bother him. He wonders if Aziraphale notices. Crowley’s been noticing for years, and it’s only going to get more frequent, if he goes around holding Aziraphale’s hand. Which he will.

He orders a mattress like his own and gives directions for the delivery, taking out a credit card and waving away Aziraphale’s protests. “My treat.”

The next day, the delivery men manage to wrestle the thing up the narrow stairs, shaking their heads in bafflement: it shouldn’t have been possible, as they’d said in tones of doom when they arrived.

When they’ve gone, Crowley turns to Aziraphale: "I had it covered, you know." 

Aziraphale smiles. "Yes, and I only helped a bit."

The bed almost fills the small room, which Aziraphale was using to store some of his book overflow. The bedclothes they chose are like a snow drift: rising high, crisp and white, very soft. 

Crowley pushes Aziraphale — gently, firmly, relentlessly — back into the mound of them and leans down over him and kisses him intently. And then he straightens up and undoes Aziraphale’s many buttons: his waistcoat and his shirt and his old-fashioned trouser flies. “So many buttons,” he grumbles, but Aziraphale just smiles, he knows Crowley likes the fact that the many buttons draw this part out and out and out, filling them both with delicious shivery anticipation. Finally, Crowley kneels to take off Aziraphale’s shoes and socks, and helps him up to shed his layers. He is wearing the duck egg blue silk pants. A happy chance or deliberate? His flirty eye flick says deliberate.

He scoots back on the bed, to lean against the headboard, thickly padded, studded with many buttons, a pale, pale blue. Crowley has to close his eyes against the perfection of his vision made flesh.

Aziraphale hasn’t moved to undress Crowley. He runs his eyes down and back up his body and waits, his request as plain as if he'd spoken it.

Crowley reaches up and frees his hair from the half bun he has it caught up in. He shakes his head back as it falls around his shoulders. When he looks down, Aziraphale’s lips are parted. 

Crowley takes off his jacket and unfastens his own waistcoat, slowly, but not quite as slowly as he undid Aziraphale’s. He slithers the knot of his silver tie undone and lets it snake from his neck. Aziraphale’s tongue is stroking his bottom lip now.

Crowley unbuckles his belt and pulls it free. His fingers are on his fly button when he remembers his boots and bends to take them off. He unzips his trousers and shimmies his hips to get out of them. Aziraphale licks his lips.

He crosses his hands on the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head.

“Come to me, my love,” Aziraphale’s voice is husky. He holds out his hand and Crowley takes it and climbs onto the bed and settles himself astride Aziraphale’s thighs and puts his hands on his chest and leans in to receive his eager kisses.

Aziraphale’s hands are on Crowley’s hips and he slips them round to the small of his back. Crowley is getting used to this, still, his breath hitches as Aziraphale’s fingers stroke gently over his scales. But Aziraphale doesn’t linger there longer than is comfortable, moving his hands to Crowley’s thighs instead. “So strong,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers against the muscle; there’s nothing for him to dig into, unlike his own generous thighs. 

“Tell me,” Crowley says, tracing the outline of Aziraphale’s mouth with a finger, “what you want.”

Aziraphale, his eyes locked with Crowley’s, moves his head a fraction, capturing his finger, rubbing it across his bottom lip, across the tip of his tongue, sucking it in. “My mouth,” he says, “I want to give you my mouth.”

“’Zirapha’e,” Crowley loses control of his own mouth. Aziraphale smiles around Crowley’s finger, curling his tongue. He takes hold of Crowley’s wrist, trailing Crowley’s wet finger across his cheek and back to his mouth. He turns Crowley’s hand over and kisses the palm, the pad of each finger; he bites gently down on the meat of his thumb, still looking nowhere but into Crowley’s eyes.

“I want to taste you,” he says, breathless, slipping his tongue between Crowley’s fingers. Crowley can picture the pink tip of it poking out; he wants to look, but that would mean breaking away from Aziraphale’s eyes, from his intent, overwhelming focus. Aziraphale’s eyes are bright, almost fever-bright, and there is a flush high on his cheeks. His free hand pushes into Crowley’s hair, tugging gently, tipping his head back, tilting it to the side, and finally he drops his eyes from Crowley’s as he dips his mouth to Crowley’s throat.

“Yessssss.” Crowley loves bearing marks made by Aziraphale, badges of his possessive desire; he shamelessly flaunts them. Now, Aziraphale doesn’t stop at one, but sucks bruise after bruise, a chain of them, until Crowley is strung out on the hot sting of them. “Angel,” he sighs as Aziraphale soothes each one with the flat of his tongue, and blows cooling breath across them. Crowley’s head drops and he sags in Aziraphale’s lap, no longer able to hold himself upright. 

Aziraphale’s strong arm supports his shoulders. “Yes, my darling,” he says, “lie back and let me …” And Crowley drags his leg across Aziraphale and allows himself to be arranged on his back. Aziraphale places his hands, palm up, at his sides and nudges his knees apart and comes to kneel between them.

“Anything, angel, anything!” Crowley is desperate for whatever Aziraphale wants to give him. He feels a deep joy in Aziraphale’s newfound freedom, his enjoyment of his own desires, his willingness to fully live in his body, in all he can do with it, all he can give Crowley of it.

Aziraphale places his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and bends down — as Crowley did when they were both still clothed — and kisses first his mouth and then his still-burning throat and his chest, biting gently even though his teeth can find no purchase, licking, tasting, leaving Crowley trembling with sensation. He lifts his hands to Aziraphale’s hips, the silk warmed by his flesh underneath, sliding under his fingers, under his thumbs as he sinks them in, holding on to calm his shaking. He knows Aziraphale will keep him safe, will keep him whole — even when in the moment that feels impossible, as it always does, in these moments.

Aziraphale places his left hand over Crowley’s. “Yes, my darling.” He understands Crowley’s unspoken anxiety. His right hand is over Crowley’s heart, and Crowley can feel it beat against Aziraphale's palm.

Now Aziraphale shuffles backwards until Crowley can no longer reach his hips, he trails his fingers up to his waist as Aziraphale’s mouth moves down his body, down his belly until he reaches the band of his black pants, left on so Aziraphale could choose when to remove them. Crowley is hard, straining against the fabric as he waits. Aziraphale trails his tongue along the edge, from hip bone to hip bone, drawing a gasp from Crowley, that becomes a moan: “Angel.”

Aziraphale curls his fingers under the band and eases it down, achingly slowly. Crowley has lifted his head so he can watch Aziraphale looking, and Aziraphale looks up into his face before dropping his eyes again. “Oh, my love,” he breathes, and his mouth is on Crowley, taking him in. 

Every atom of Crowley’s being is focused on this intimacy. He has told Aziraphale, and he has meant it, that no one touch is more than another, any way, every way Aziraphale touches him is how he desires to be touched. But this touch is overwhelming in its trust. That Aziraphale would take him into himself, into his mouth, is inexpressible. He has touched Aziraphale like this, and he will continue to as long as Aziraphale desires it, but he would never presume to expect this for himself. When previously Aziraphale has used his mouth to touch Crowley, he has stopped short of taking him in, and Crowley has been overwhelmed enough by that.

He pushes his hands into Aziraphale’s curls, and Aziraphale hums his pleasure, the vibration deep in his chest somehow intensifying their connection, rattling the bones of Crowley’s spine, and Crowley can hear the beating of his own wings before he is even properly aware they are stretched up and back. He opens his eyes and sees all the stars of the heavens as he has not seen them since the very beginning.

Aziraphale’s thumbs are digging into the tender insides of Crowley’s thighs, his strong, soft hands anchoring him as his mouth moves on him. A shout tears from Crowley that he is certain shakes the walls of the room even as it rings across the void. When he returns to his corporeal self in their new bed Aziraphale is still kneeling between his thighs, sitting back on his heels as his wings gleam purest white behind hm, not-here, but seeming to brush the ceiling and the far wall of the room nonetheless.

“My Crowley.” Aziraphale’s face shines as if lit from within. “Thank you, my darling.”

“Thank me?” Crowley reaches for Aziraphale, barely able to lift his arm, and Aziraphale leans down towards him.

“Yes,” he says, his mouth brushing Crowley’s, “Thank you, my love.” His wings are as a sheltering canopy above them. 

Crowley closes his eyes, unable to take in so much, and hears a rustle of feathers as Aziraphale furls them. He looks back up, his mouth curving in a smile to match Aziraphale’s — tender, happy. “Come here to me?” he says, reaching for Aziraphale, wanting to give him equal pleasure, but Aziraphale shakes his head, taking Crowley’s hand in his and lying down pillowed on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley tips his head so his cheek rests on Aziraphale’s hair and they fall asleep together in their new bed.


	2. restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Much later, lying together under the heaped white bedclothes, Aziraphale’s arm around Crowley’s shoulder, Crowley’s hand upon Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley says: “Do you think you’ll open the shop every day now?”_  
>  _“Not every day, but perhaps oftener than before. Selling someone the right book is … it’s like a blessing.” He drops a kiss onto the top of Crowley’s head. “But I’ll never be too busy for us, you know that, don’t you?”_   
>  _Crowley grunts. He thinks he knows that, but it’s all very new, this being together, intertwining their lives, finding something to do with their time now they aren’t trying to avert The End._

The unfamiliar light in this unfamiliar room wakes him before Aziraphale stirs, giving him a rare chance to watch him in repose. He is almost submerged by the down-filled quilt with its snow-white cover, his hair a creamy tumble on the pillow. Crowley wriggles closer, into the warmth of Aziraphale’s body, and his eyes fall shut again.

The next time he wakes is when Aziraphale strokes the back of his fingers down Crowley’s cheek. He reaches up and catches his hand, turning it over and kissing the palm, his eyes still closed.

“Good morning,” says Aziraphale, his voice intimately soft.

“Mmmmf.” Crowley burrows even closer, not ready to leave this cocoon yet.

“I thought I might open the shop today.”

Crowley opens his eyes. “Don’t … Open … You don’t open your shop.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “I do, sometimes. I have a feeling I may want to a bit more, now.”

“Now?”

“That we’re on our own. Out of a job.”

“Huh. I suppose we are.”

Crowley turns over and lays his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Stay here a bit longer, though?” Aziraphale combs a hand through Crowley’s hair. “This is a good bed, isn’t it?”

“A very good bed, thank you, my dear. 

Aziraphale stays in the bed, his hand in Crowley’s hair, his skin warm under Crowley’s cheek, for a while longer, but it’s obvious he wants to be up, so Crowley rolls away and gets up first. The bed will be here, just upstairs, waiting for them when Aziraphale’s done pottering. And Crowley wants to be in the shop with him while he potters, he told him so.

Aziraphale gets up too and they dress on opposite sides of the bed, watching each other put on their outward selves. When he is clothed but before he puts on his jacket, Aziraphale comes round to Crowley. He slips his hand up under his hair, on the back of his neck. “We’ll work it out,” he says.

“What, angel?”

“What to do with ourselves now.”

Crowley has been so caught up with Aziraphale in their private world of exploration that he hasn’t really thought about this, past missing the shop and Aziraphale in the shop. He hasn’t thought what he will do, beyond dozing on Aziraphale’s backroom sofa.

“I suppose,” he says. “Never had to think about that before. You had your books, your shop. I only had my schemes to keep me occupied.”

“And your plants.”

“That’s just a … hobby.”

Aziraphale rubs his thumb up Crowley’s neck. “It’s bound to take us a while. We’ll get there. Are you coming down?”

“Course, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face melts into his softest smile and he takes Crowley’s hand. They go downstairs together and Aziraphale bustles about, raising the blinds and unlocking the door. A slab of sunlight falls on the floor. Crowley had thought he’d just curl up and drift, but this talk of what they might do next, what he might do, has made him unexpectedly restless. He decides to go out after all, and look at the world. It’s not as if they’ve been spending every hour together.

“I won’t be long,” he says. He has nowhere he needs to be, nothing to seek out, no gift to choose, no reason to go out, just a strangely itchy sense of purposelessness.

It’s a pleasant day, one of those days when London seems softer, fresher, kinder. Crowley used to have to think of ways to subvert that. Now he can just enjoy it. Can enjoy, from behind his glasses, the laughter of a toddler swinging from his fathers' hands; can admire the chutzpah of the woman almost engulfed by an enormous chartreuse scarf, can smile at the couple kissing while waiting for a light to change — all this happiness includes him and Aziraphale now. 

But he still feels aimless, wandering around on his own, so he turns back towards the shop, stopping to buy Aziraphale a treat from the funny Maison Bertaux. The owner recognises him and tells him " _ cher _ Mr Fell" will love the raspberry tartlet and would he like a slice of  _ tarte au citron _ again? She ties the two pastry boxes with red and white string and sends him on his way with a cheery "Au revoir!" 

It's an odd experience, being recognised as part of a pair, of a couple. Crowley thinks he likes it. He is smiling as he walks back to the shop.

“Angel,” he says as he pushes the door open, “I brought you—”

Aziraphale is standing at his till, ringing up a purchase. “I do hope you enjoy it,” he is saying to an elderly woman, “it’s every bit as good as  _ The Quiet Gentleman.” _

“I’m sure I will. And such a lovely edition, takes me back to my youth,” the woman says. “I’m so glad to have found you. I could have bought a modern paperback at Foyle’s I suppose, but the covers are so garish, don’t you think.”

“Oh, I agree,” says Aziraphale, “I have lots more of her, do come back.”

“Thank you. Goodbye now, Mr Fell.”

Crowley can’t help raising an eyebrow at Aziraphale as the woman leaves. Aziraphale frowns, but his mouth is trying not to smile.

“Selling a book, angel?” Crowley says as the bell tinkles behind her, “Letting one of your treasures leave the premises?”

“Oh stop it!” says Aziraphale, blushing. “She said she doesn’t feel like reading anything other than Georgette since her husband died. How could I keep it to myself? And besides,” he says, “I have several of that particular one.”

“Clever,” says Crowley, putting the cake boxes on the counter. “As I was saying, I brought you a tart.” 

“Thank you, my dear. I’ll close up now, actually selling books is rather tiring, I find.”

Crowley can’t help his fond laughter, everything about Aziraphale delights him, even his assumed fustiness. “Go on, angel, it was one book!”

Aziraphale giggles. “I had a moment of concern about the money in the till, thought it might be shillings and sixpences, it’s so long since I bothered. But you know,” he adds, “I did enjoy it. Selling that particular book, the exact book she needed.”

Crowley goes upstairs and looks for plates in Aziraphale’s kitchen. There’s not much there besides a kettle and a small saucepan, to heat milk for Aziraphale’s cocoa, he assumes. His own kitchen is worse, he doesn’t even have a milk pan. He can hear Aziraphale downstairs, closing the blinds, locking the door with a click, and then his feet on the stairs. What would it be like, if this was their everyday life? The shop, this little flat, their new bed, books, perhaps a few plants?

“I couldn’t find any plates,” he says as Aziraphale steps into the kitchen. He has untied the string from the cake boxes and opened them.

“What’s that? Oh, plates. No, there aren’t any. I don't eat at home. There are tea things though.” He comes over to where Crowley is standing at the counter and slips an arm round his waist. “That does look scrummy,” he says. “We can just eat straight out of the boxes. Like a picnic at home.”

Crowley’s chest does that thing it does when Aziraphale is especially himself. He picks up the little raspberry tart and holds it out to Aziraphale, who opens his mouth and takes a bite.

“Oh, that is delicious,” he says. He doesn’t take it from Crowley’s hand, just catches a crumb with the tip of his tongue and savours the mouthful luxuriously before leaning in for another bite, his fingers round Crowley’s wrist, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

When only a bite remains, he says: “Would you like a taste, dear?” Crowley nods and kisses him, chasing the sharp sweetness of the berries, and pops the last morsel into Aziraphale’s smiling mouth.

“Let’s save the lemon thing for later,” he says, picturing crumbs on their new bed, although Aziraphale might object.

Much later, lying together under the heaped white bedclothes, Aziraphale’s arm around Crowley’s shoulder, Crowley’s hand upon Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley says: “Do you think you’ll open the shop every day now?”

“Not every day, but perhaps oftener than before. Selling someone the right book is … it’s like a blessing.” He drops a kiss onto the top of Crowley’s head. “But I’ll never be too busy for us, you know that, don’t you?”

Crowley grunts. He thinks he knows that, but it’s all very new, this being together, intertwining their lives, finding something to do with their time now they aren’t trying to avert The End.

"I wish I had something I could do. Now that, you know, I don't want to do what I did before." He turns his face into Aziraphale's shoulder so he can avoid the look of concern he feels sure will be on his face.

"I know, my love. I wish—"

"Don't try to fix it," Crowley says, his voice muffled. "Please don't."

"But—"

Crowley lifts his head to look at Aziraphale. "I know you're trying to help, angel, but it makes it worse."

"Oh." Aziraphale sounds mortified. "Forgive me, Crowley."

Crowley reaches for the hand that’s not already holding him. “I’m sorry. I feel so useless. That’s why I went out this morning, when I thought I’d want to just hang around here with you. I felt so restless, I couldn’t stay in. People out there seemed happy. They had places to go, things to do. They were busy.”

“And then you came back and I was also busy, selling that book.”

“I don’t want us  _ both _ to be bored,” says Crowley, aware his voice is petulant. “Don’t mind me,” he adds. He’s tempted to turn over, turn his back on Aziraphale to sleep, but he stops himself. Only last night, they shared the most profound intimacy, and now he’s arguing with Aziraphale because of his own frustration. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He drops his mouth to Aziraphale’s shoulder, kissing him, leaning over to kiss his chest, to kiss his way down his body, to try to smooth over their prickliness, but Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, halting him.

“Don’t,” he says. “It’s too precious.”

Crowley frowns up at him. “What?”

“Being that intimate, it’s too … it’s too important—” 

“To smooth things over with?”

Aziraphale bites his lip and nods. “May I hold you?” he asks.

“Would you brush my hair?”

“Of course, my love.” 

Aziraphale sits up, and leans against the plush velvet headboard. “Well …” he says, and Crowley understands, snapping his fingers to summon the silver hairbrush. He settles himself in the bracket of Aziraphale’s legs, wrapping his hands around his ankles, and shakes his hair back. They don’t speak as Aziraphale pulls the bristles gently through the tangles, setting Crowley’s hair to rights, settling his mood.

He still has no idea what comes next, but waiting to find out seems possible again.


	3. together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The afternoon stretches out sunlit and warm and the lanes are empty of traffic. Aziraphale has wound his window down too and the breeze is ruffling his hair and it’s lit up golden by the declining sun. Crowley thinks he has rarely looked more beautiful._  
>  “I was thinking,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road, “about what I could do, you know, now. You’re right, I would like to do something with plants. I’m not sure what.”

“I think I’ll go and see to the plants today.” They are dressing, facing each other across the bed.

“You never know what heinous sins they may be committing in your absence.”

“You may tease, angel, but my method works.” 

He feels less prickly than he did last night; his stomach twists a little with shame at arguing with Aziraphale over something so trivial. He’s right, they’ll work it out, Crowley just needs to find a project, something absorbing. He’s always needed a scheme to occupy himself. Down Below never understood why he did things like the M25, or the phones — it was because they required so much planning and took up so much time. Or being Warlock’s nanny: time consuming, surprisingly interesting, and with the bonus that Aziraphale had been there, just across the garden in his little cottage, available for chats and shared bottles of wine. Giving Crowley hope that it could be like that always, him and Aziraphale, happy and — dare he imagine it — domestic.

And now here they are, happy and almost domestic, and he could ruin it if he’s not careful.

So he kisses Aziraphale and leaves him behind his counter with his nose in a book and gets in the Bentley and drives back to his flat, where the plants do need his attention: a wilting leaf here and there to be plucked off, soil that has dried out a bit, and lurking on the underside of a peace lily leaf, red spider mite! He fills a sprayer and sees it off. The room’s damp and leaf-moldy scent is soothing and he hardly notices time passing. 

Finally, he chooses an orchid that will open its white and deep purple buds within the next few days to take to Aziraphale, and selects a wine he’s been meaning to share, and heads back to the shop. He considers taking Aziraphale’s robe and shoes — and his own shoes — but they seem to belong here somehow. He can always fetch them if Aziraphale wants. He doesn’t mind where they sleep, as long as they sleep together. He thinks about that: sleeping together. Humans use the term to mean something else, not-sleeping, but for him, and perhaps for Aziraphale, actually sleeping together is very precious. Being not-alone after so very long being alone.

He glances through the bookshop window before opening the door. Aziraphale doesn’t appear to be busy with a customer, but you never know, one could be lurking between the shelves and then he’d have to wait his turn.

“Hello, angel,” he says, opening the door.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sounds delighted, as if they’d been apart far longer, and Crowley feels his heart expand. He sets the orchid down on the counter. 

“Brought you something.”

“How lovely,” says Aziraphale, touching the flower stem lightly with a finger, “You really are good at this, making things grow.”

“ _ Making _ them grow, eh?”

“You know what I mean, looking after them so they grow.”

Crowley shrugs. “I’ve got some experience. Passes the time.” There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the shop, so he steps round the counter and catches Aziraphale in a half-embrace, an arm round his waist. Aziraphale turns fully to him and kisses him, quickly, but on the mouth, and smiles at him.

“I sold another book,” he says.

“You’ll have to restock soon,” Crowley teases.

“I was thinking I should expand my range, get some less esoteric things in, for the passing trade.”

“Get you, becoming a real bookseller.”

Aziraphale swats him on the arm. “Crowley,” he says, still smiling. Crowley will never get tired of all the different ways Aziraphale says his name, everything he can express with it. “I’ll close up now.” 

The morning is gone but the rest of the day remains, unfilled.

“Come for a drive?”

“A drive? Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere particular. Out of London. I’ll drive slowly, promise.”

“We can find somewhere to have tea. Or dinner, perhaps.”

Crowley tries very hard to drive at a speed that won’t alarm Aziraphale, and he can see him restraining himself from clutching at the dashboard, until finally he relaxes. When they are clear of the hazards of London traffic, on a little back road where the hedges threaten to scratch the car’s paintwork (but don’t actually dare) Crowley rolls down his window, and reaches for Aziraphale’s hand, earning himself a look of mild alarm. “I’m barely doing 30, angel, I can control it with one hand. Besides, have I ever had an accident, in all the time I’ve had it? And don’t mention hitting Anathema, that was all her fault, cycling through a wood at night with no light.”

Aziraphale pulls their hands towards himself until they are resting on his thigh, fingers interlaced.

“Out for a drive,” he says. “Such a normal thing to do.”

“Not sure humans do it anymore. They used to, back when this one was new,” says Crowley.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and he sounds disappointed.

“It can be our normal. We can pack a picnic.”

They haven’t gone on the picnic that Aziraphale offered, all those years ago. Crowley hasn’t forgotten, despite everything that’s happened.

“Next time,” says Aziraphale, beaming.

“Tomorrow, if you want.”

The afternoon stretches out sunlit and warm and the lanes are empty of traffic. Aziraphale has wound his window down too and the breeze is ruffling his hair and it’s lit up golden by the declining sun. Crowley thinks he has rarely looked more beautiful.

“I was thinking,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road, “about what I could do, you know, now. You’re right, I would like to do something with plants. I’m not sure what.”

“I think,” says Aziraphale, a little hesitant, “I think that sounds like a good idea. You’ll know, when the time is right.” He turns in his seat, to look at Crowley. “I really am sorry, about trying to fix it. It’s how I am. I don’t know what we’ll do next. I just want to do it with you, that’s all I care about.”

“And I’m sorry, for being so snappish.”

“Stop the car,” says Aziraphale.

“Why, what did I do?” But he pulls over and stops.

“Turn off the engine.”

Mystified, Crowley does as he’s told.

“Now come here.” Aziraphale leans back in his seat.

“Over there?”

“Yes.” He pats his lap.

It’s not the most graceful thing he’s ever done, but Crowley manages to extricate himself and climb past the gear lever and settle in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale takes his face between his hands. 

“Don’t apologise for how you feel, my love. It is a bit terrifying, all this newness, all these decisions. Not being under their thumbs anymore. We don't know what we'll do. But we can decide. We can  _ choose _ . We can do anything. We'll be  together ."

He slips a hand to the back of Crowley's head and pulls him closer and kisses him — so softly, so tenderly, that Crowley feels his worry dissolve. Aziraphale believes in them, believes in him. It will be alright. He relaxes against Aziraphale and they hold each other for a long time as dusk gathers between the hedges.


	4. a picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale turns his head to look out the side window. When he speaks again, his voice is thick: “All I could think was ‘It can’t end, I never told him. Six thousand years and I never told him.’ It was too cruel. They are cruel and harsh and cold. But I don’t think She is.”  
>  “Not sure She cares though. We're just two beings, how much do you think we matter?”_

They do go for  a picnic the next day. The hamper is from Fortnum and Mason, since Aziraphale had read somewhere that the posh grocers do an excellent hamper, and neither of them knows anything about creating food.

“Appropriate, I’d say, for the Bentley,” says Aziraphale as Crowley stows it. As they get underway, he leans back in the passenger seat, it seems he no longer fears Crowley’s driving. “You don’t go so fast anymore,” he says, and reaches past the gear lever to lay his hand on Crowley’s thigh. Crowley concentrates on the traffic until his heart stops fluttering like a caged bird. “You waited until I caught up,” he adds, causing Crowley to have to momentarily close his eyes and blink tears away; it’s a good thing his glasses hide that from Aziraphale. 

He clears his throat. “Course,” is all he manages. Aziraphale’s fingers squeeze, their warmth soaking through Crowley’s jeans.

“Now,” he says, leaning into the foot well to retrieve an enormous Ordnance Survey atlas of Great Britain (and Ireland), “where should we go today?”

It’s at times like these, when Aziraphale does something so absolutely  _ him _ , that Crowley is convinced that despite knowing him forever, there will always be something new to make him adore him more than he does already.

“I don’t know, angel,” he manages, “you choose.”

“Have you ever been to the Downs? Rolling hills, lovely views. Seems ideal for a picnic, don’t you think?”

“Sounds great, angel.” Crowley would go on a picnic in a scruffy park. His main desire is to lie on the tartan rug Aziraphale packed, with his head resting in Aziraphale’s lap. Who cares about scenic views? 

“Now, just let me work out how to get there,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head in an attempt to understand the map (which is upside down since they’ll be driving south), then turning the unwieldy book, bashing Crowley’s hand on the steering wheel. “Oh dear,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I was never much good at maps.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll google it,” says Crowley, pulling out his phone and opening the Maps app.

Aziraphale jumps when the app woman speaks. “Oh! What …? Well, isn’t that clever,” he finishes, peering at the phone.

Crowley’s whole face is contorted as he tries to stifle his fond laughter.

Aziraphale looks straight ahead as they wind their way through the city’s outer reaches, his hand on Crowley’s leg, occasionally getting in the way when he changes gears. He gives a little jump every time the map voice calls out an instruction. “She’s rather bossy, isn’t she,” he says at one point, finally making Crowley throw his head back and laugh. 

At last, they leave London’s endless outer suburbs behind and the sky opens up ahead. The day is sunny and breezy, small clouds chasing each other, trailing their shadows on the fields. Crowley winds down his window, the handle no longer a bit stiff in this reincarnation of the car as it had been in the old one, the one that had really been old.

“Brilliant day,” he says. 

“Marvellous,” Aziraphale agrees. “One forgets, living in London for so long, how lovely the countryside is.”

“The last time I left London I wasn’t really in a position to appreciate the countryside. Not counting yesterday, that is.”

“No, I suppose not. Nor me. That moped,” he shudders. “Miracle I arrived in one piece.”

“Literal miracle?”

“I’m sure I would have come a cropper, if it had been me alone, but she was surprisingly adept on that machine. It didn’t require a literal miracle.”

Crowley huffs a half-laugh at that. “I wonder how she’s doing. Do you really think she and Shadwell can make a go of it?”

“It would take a very broad-minded woman to put up with him.”

“Well, I gather she is that,” says Crowley.

“I suppose she is. I hope they’re happy. What an odd sort he was.”

There’s something about sitting together in the car that makes it easy to talk about nothing in particular — or about things it is difficult to say.

“The car being on fire was the least of my fears,” Crowley says now. “Fire, pfft, I thought it had already done the worst it could to me.”

“Oh, my love.” Aziraphale’s fingers tighten again on his thigh, and Crowley lays his hand over Aziraphale’s.

“Nothing they could do to me would have been worse.” He almost can’t say this aloud, but Aziraphale hears him. “I knew you would do everything you could to get back, after you spoke to me. All I had to do was get there too. And you know what the power of belief can do.” 

“I do.” Aziraphale turns his head to look out the side window. When he speaks again, his voice is thick: “All I could think was ‘It can’t end, I never told him. Six thousand years and I never told him.’ It was too cruel.  _ They _ are cruel and harsh and cold. But I don’t think She is.”

“Not sure She cares though. We're just two beings, how much do you think we matter?”

“I know you hate it when I say it, but I’m going to anyway. I don’t think us meeting was an accident. Or keeping on meeting.” He turns back to look at Crowley, and Crowley meets his eyes, letting his glasses slide down his nose.

“Ineffable.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley stamps on the brake pedal, wincing as the car screeches to a halt, and flings his door open, lurches out, rounds the car in a few long strides, wrenches Aziraphale’s door open and drops to his knees, his forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh, his hands clutching at his clothes. Aziraphale’s hands come to rest on his head, the gesture of benediction.

“Crowley.”

“Angel.”

They remain like that while Crowley listens to his so-human heart thunder and finally begin to slow to a bearable rhythm. Three things bring him back to awareness of anything outside of him and Aziraphale: a car horn sounds, a sheep baa’s, and he feels the roadside gravel digging into his knees. He gets to his feet with effort. In the road, an old, battered Landrover cannot get past his wide-open door. In the field at his back, a crowd of sheep look at them with what passes in sheep for puzzled interest. He raises his hand in apology to the other driver and rounds the Bentley to close the door, waiting for the Landrover to disappear over the rise before getting back in. He slumps in his seat.

“Don’t think I can drive just now.”

“No.”

“I’ll just pull onto the verge.”

“Yes.”

He starts the car and steers off the road, turns off the engine again.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale says: “We’ll stay here. Have our picnic.”

“If those sheep will let us.”

Aziraphale chuckles, picking up Crowley’s attempt to lighten the mood. “I’ll see to them.” He opens his door and steps out. “Shoo,” he says, “Off you go now.” And the sheep turn and amble away. He comes around the car and opens Crowley’s door, holds out his hand. “Come, my dear.”

Crowley takes his hand and steps out on shaky knees. Aziraphale pulls him into his arms until finally Crowley raises his head and nods, signalling his acceptance, the beginning of his acceptance, of this idea that has been lurking ever since that day, since they helped to avert the End, since they survived, since they sat on that bus-stop bench together, since they tentatively held hands all the way back to London. It’s too big for Crowley to grasp onto and hold all at once. He lifts his hand to Aziraphale’s face, touches his cheek lightly with the back of his fingers, the most gentle touch he knows how to give. “Thank you,” he says. Aziraphale nods too and they step apart. 

Crowley gets the hamper out of the car boot, Aziraphale retrieves the tartan blanket and together they open the gate to the field and step out onto the sheep-grazed turf sloping gently away. The sky is wide in front of them and Crowley takes a deep breath. They don’t go far, only a little way from the road. Aziraphale spreads out the rug and Crowley sets the hamper down.

“A picnic!” says Aziraphale, sitting down and opening the hamper.

“At last,” Crowley agrees.

“I made you wait so long.”

“But here we are.” Crowley sits down next to Aziraphale and reaches into the hamper for the bottle of champagne. It’s gotten a little warm but he soon deals with that and opens it and pours them each a glass. 

Aziraphale raises his in a toast: “There is nowhere I would rather be, than wherever you are. Always and forever.”

Crowley has taken off his glasses, even though the bright light hurts his eyes a little. “Always, forever,” he echoes. His eyes are prickling. “What else is in this picnic,” he says, peering into the basket and taking out cheeses and crackers, fruit and cake. He nibbles a little of everything Aziraphale offers him, but he is less interested in the food than in the rug, in Aziraphale’s lap. He stretches out and pillows his head and looks up into his beloved face and is at home.

Aziraphale finishes off the slice of cake he’s enjoying, licks his fingers clean and lays them delicately on Crowley’s throat, where the chain of possessive marks he made is fading. Crowley drifts, warmed by the sun, cooled by the breeze, soothed by the scent of Aziraphale and of grass and faintly, of sheep. 

He stirs when Aziraphale shifts, shrugging out of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves. “It’s delightfully warm,” he says.

“Mmmmm.” Crowley is almost drugged by the warmth, his muscles gone languid. He reaches up to wrap his hand around Aziraphale’s bare forearm and pull him down into a kiss. His mouth tastes of plums and the wine. “Come down here?” he says, raising his head from Aziraphale’s lap so he too can stretch out on the rug. They lie face to face, and he slings an ankle over Aziraphale’s ankle and shifts even closer. Aziraphale’s eyes drift shut and he falls asleep smiling.

Crowley is woken by a chill. Clouds have drifted across the declining sun and sheep surround them, gazing impassively, their jaws moving. He kisses Aziraphale to wake him, his favourite way to do it. Aziraphale wakes smiling.

“Goodness,” he says, sitting up, “Shoo!” The sheep retreat. 

They pack up the hamper and shake off the rug and get back in the Bentley. They don’t talk about what happened before lunch. They will, but this evening they drive home in companionable silence. By the time Crowley pulls up outside the bookshop, Aziraphale is asleep again. Crowley has kept his hand on his thigh all the way, barring gear changing.


	5. a rare plant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another drive, a new plant, more confessions ...
> 
> _Crowley realises he hasn’t snarled at his plants once today. And he realises why that is: he doesn’t need to get rid of tension and suppressed feelings anymore, doesn’t need to deflect anxiety and terror, now he no longer has that constant knot in his chest._

Crowley is content now to do what he thought he would in the shop: drowse while Aziraphale potters and welcomes an increasing number of customers. 

When he is done dozing he stalks about between the shelves, staying out of sight as Aziraphale listens to each one explain what sort of book they are looking for, and considers what might best fill that need, and searches for it, and presents it, telling them why it is the right book, and takes their money (the amount apparently decided at random), and sends them on their way happy. He is very good at selling books, now that he has decided to.

And then, feeling calmed and steadied by Aziraphale’s competence with his books, Crowley goes back to his flat, to see to his plants. He walks among them, considering what they need, and what they each give him, why he chose them. He loses track of time, and is startled when Aziraphale steps into the room and slips his arms around him.

“Here you are, in your element.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes. Look at them thriving under your care.”

Crowley realises he hasn’t snarled at his plants once today. And he realises why that is: he doesn’t need to get rid of tension and suppressed feelings anymore, doesn’t need to deflect anxiety and terror, now he no longer has that constant knot in his chest.

He turns in Aziraphale’s arms, to face him. “They are, aren’t they.” And he takes Aziraphale’s hand and leads him round the room pointing out the loveliest, and his favourites — the ones that have made the most progress, the ones that struggled on against the odds, even when he was terrifying them.

Aziraphale is interested, he asks the right questions, points out the ones he finds particularly beautiful — not always the same ones as Crowley does. 

Crowley thinks: I  _ am _ good at this. I’m good at tending them, and maybe I could be good at showing them off, or making others see what is special about them. The seed of an idea about what he might do next has been planted and is starting to germinate. It might soon send up a small green shoot for Crowley to nurture.

Aziraphale leads him from the plant room into the bedroom: the bed with its dark sheets, Aziraphale’s gown hanging from its hook, their special shoes neatly side by side. They haven't been in this bed in a while.

He loosens his tie, and undoes Crowley’s buttons and lets Crowley undo his buttons and unfold his many layers. And then he takes the gown off its hook and slips it on and flexes his shoulders under the heavy silk, luxuriously, and gets onto the bed. Crowley follows him and lies in his arms and tells him about not snarling at the plants, and why he doesn’t need to anymore.

“My dear love.” Aziraphale holds him, and runs his hand through Crowley’s hair and says: “I'm the same. I can sell books now. The bookshop isn’t just a refuge, somewhere to hide and store treasures.”

“You’re very good at selling books, you know,” says Crowley, “You take such trouble to find the perfect one.”

He runs his fingers over an embroidered strawberry on the collar of the robe, red, and shaped almost like a heart, and over the milky-pale skin just under the collar, and presses kisses to that soft skin as Aziraphale’s hand stills in his hair. “You’re right, everything is changing for us,” he says, against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “My feelings—” Crowley tenses, a tiny bit, and knows Aziraphale feels it “— no, no, my darling! — my feelings are deeper now than they have ever been. This time we have spent … exploring; I hardly knew what it was, to love. Even when I knew I loved you, like that, yes, like that, I hardly knew what that truly meant. I am still learning. How to show you. Do you think one ever comes to the end of that learning?”

Crowley lifts his head, to look straight at Aziraphale. “No. I have not, yet. I knew how I really felt before you allowed yourself to know, and I haven’t learnt all the ways to love you.”

“And to be loved?”

“Not that either. Look at how awful I was to you. Good thing we have time, eh?”

“You weren’t awful to me. But we will keep learning how to be together.” Aziraphale drops kisses into Crowley’s hair, and all across his forehead. Crowley feels completely cared for, and wholly  _ seen _ . He falls asleep listening to Aziraphale’s steady heart, which he has not yet fully understood and which he wants never to stop learning.

The next morning, he wakes before Aziraphale, still a rare thing, and goes to see his plants again. “I have plans for you,” he tells them, promise in his voice and no threat.

He wakes Aziraphale softly and asks him: “Would you like to go into the countryside again today? See what else is out there?”

“I’d like to see more of those lovely hills. There are apparently rare plants there. Wouldn’t that be something,  a rare plant ?”

“Where did you read that, angel?”

Aziraphale laughs: “Not in the most up-to-date book, I admit. But you can ‘goggle’ it on your clever phone.”

“Google, Aziraphale!” Crowley’s laughing too. He does check, though, and it’s true, there are rare plants, native orchids, that grow only there, on the chalky soil grazed by generations of sheep. “Alright, another picnic. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

They pack the Fortnum’s hamper with treats from Bertaux and set off. Aziraphale no longer jumps at the map-reading woman’s voice, but his hand does still get in the way of gear-changing, thankfully.

They drive out further, across the North Downs, through the great valley of the Weald, and up onto the South Downs, until suddenly, in the far distance, they see a sparkling sliver of sea. 

“Dolphins, whales,” Crowley says, to make Aziraphale laugh again.

They drive until they are in a narrow lane, and park the car and set off into a field. No sheep here. 

“Let’s find a rare plant, then.”

They walk some distance, looking down at the ground to spot plants, and up, at the hills and the sky and the distant sea. And then Crowley sees it, small and unassuming, but bearing an upright spike of purple flowers. A native orchid. He crouches down to look closer. 

"Look, angel. Just as you promised." He takes off his glasses, to see the colours better: purple, spotted with darker purple. He reaches out a careful finger and touches one bloom. 

Aziraphale crouches down next to him. "How pretty!"

"Magnificent!" says Crowley. "I do love orchids. Difficult buggers, some of them. Parasites. And almost ugly — weird shapes, bizarre colours. But they reward patience. And look at this one. So small and simple, but bold! Proud!" 

He turns to look at Aziraphale, who isn't looking at the plant, but at Crowley, his expression so fond. "Oh, my dear," he says. "You really do love plants."

"Course I do. But you know, I didn't realise until recently that I find them interesting. Not just as a hobby, not just making them grow, but in themselves." He stops, touches a flower again. "I'm still not sure," he says, "but something with plants. Somehow. I'll work it out." 

Which is what Aziraphale had said, when Crowley felt too itchy with uncertainty to hear him properly. But he doesn't say: "I told you that, days ago, if only you'd listened." Crowley says that to himself. He stands up, and gives Aziraphale a hand.

"Brilliant walk, angel. Thank you. Shall we go back for our picnic now?"

Before they turn away, he snaps a picture of the orchid.

Aziraphale has packed a thermos. A modern stainless steel one, not tartan-patterned. Crowley glances at him as he lifts it out. The look in Aziraphale's eyes tells him he's feeling the same lump in his throat, but they don't say anything, although their fingers do linger when their hands brush as he hands it over.

"Tea," says Aziraphale. "Would you like a cup?"

"Maybe later." He has to clear his throat. "I packed wine, too." He lifts the bottle of German Riesling, dragging his thumb down the neck, through the condensation that wasn't there a moment ago.

"Such useful magic," says Aziraphale, holding the glasses while Crowley pours.

They sit side by side on the tartan rug, looking towards the sea, sipping their cold wine and eating cheese puffs fiery with cayenne pepper.

"Could you live out here?" says Crowley.

"I've never thought of it. We've been Londoners for so long." Aziraphale reaches for Crowley's hand. "But I could live anywhere, with you."

"I've never really thought about it either. But I think, maybe … it might be something I'd like. With you."

They haven't discussed the future, haven't even talked about whether they will live together, in one home. They haven't spent a night apart, since that night at Crowley's flat, that night when they'd first learned to touch one another. But they haven't  _ talked _ about it, whether they would keep both flats, and go to one or the other as they felt like it, books in one place, plants in the other, dark sheets and back-punishing carvings on the one bed, soft blue velvet and sheets white like a snowdrift on the other. Crowley thinks it might be easier to start together in a new place. But Aziraphale is far more attached to his bookshop than Crowley is to his austere and rather ridiculous flat.

“We can take our time, thinking about what we want, can’t we?” says Aziraphale.

“Yes, no need to rush.”

And they look out towards the sea again. 

“We should go all the way to the coast, next time. See what it's like down there."

A breeze has sprung up, blowing his hair across his face. He gathers it into his hand. 

“May I?” asks Aziraphale, his hand on Crowley’s.

“What?”

“May I plait your hair? To keep it tidy, out of your eyes.”

“Where’d you learn that, angel?”

“I practised. Long, long ago.” Aziraphale’s voice is very quiet, as if this is something he hardly dares to admit.

“Long ago?”

“You had a braid in your hair—”

“Before the flood? That’s the only time I can remember seeing you, when I wore my hair like that. But you remember that, too?”

Aziraphale is blushing scarlet. “I thought it looked lovely. I drew it … in the mud—”

“You thought it looked lovely?”

“Yes. And then I wondered if I could do it, so I practised how—”

“On who?” Crowley shouldn’t be firing questions at Aziraphale, but this information is so startling.

“On no one. On rushes, on stalks of grass.” Aziraphale has dropped his hands into his lap, and he is looking at them, miming the left over middle, right over middle motions. “It’s so foolish. But I do know how to make a plait,” his voice rises.

Crowley gets onto his knees so he can turn to Aziraphale properly. He brushes his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Angel,” he says, “of course you may plait my hair. I can’t believe …” He leans in and kisses Aziraphale and reaches for his hand and lifts it back to his hair. “I would like that,” he says, “very much.”

“Well, let me get behind you,” says Aziraphale, shuffling. He pulls his fingers carefully through Crowley’s hair, easing out the tangles, dividing the mass of it into three. And then he plaits it with careful fingers, until it lies down Crowley’s back in a heavy rope.

“There,” he says, “Now it won’t get in your eyes.”

“Thank you.” Crowley shakes his head, to feel the plait swing across his shoulders. “It’s not very practical, so long,” he says.

“But I love it,” says Aziraphale. “You grew it for me. It’s very beautiful.”

Now Crowley is the one blushing, under this sustained adoring scrutiny.

Despite the breeze, the day is still sunny. Aziraphale pours a cup of tea from the flask. Crowley doesn’t want his own cup, but he drinks from Aziraphale’s, when he offers it. 


	6. Devil’s Dyke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They have not yet made it all the way to the coast, as they said they would. One day, lounging on Aziaphale’s back room sofa, Crowley notices the huge atlas and settles it across his knees, looking for places in the lovely South Downs they might visit, routes that look promising, when his eye falls on a place name: Devil’s Dyke. It would make Aziraphale laugh, he thinks, and making Aziraphale laugh is a favourite project of Crowley’s. Laughing with him, now they’re free. So he suggests a trip, an overnight trip._

They fall into a rhythm, together sometimes in the slate bed, other times in the blue bed. Aziraphale opens the shop most days, but he’s just as happy not to, if Crowley suggests another drive, or a walk in the park, or lunch somewhere new (he keeps an eye on the restaurant reviews, looking for places Aziraphale might like). 

Crowley tends his plants, and thinks about what will happen next. The idea of leaving London, of making a place that is theirs together, that is a home for both of them, is taking root and growing, but he’s hesitant to uproot Aziraphale from his beloved shop, the unchanging scene of his life for centuries. Crowley has never felt terribly settled in one place. He’s hung around London, certainly, because Aziraphale has been here, but he hasn’t loved his homes here.

They have not yet made it all the way to the coast, as they said they would. One day, lounging on Aziaphale’s back room sofa, Crowley notices the huge atlas and settles it across his knees, looking for places in the lovely South Downs they might visit, routes that look promising, when his eye falls on a place name: Devil’s Dyke. It would make Aziraphale laugh, he thinks, and making Aziraphale laugh is a favourite project of Crowley’s. Laughing with him, now they’re free. So he suggests a trip, an overnight trip.

“We could stay in a B&B!” says Aziraphale.

Crowley had thought they could spend the night lying on the tartan rug gazing up at the stars.

“Yes, we could,” he says. Aziraphale is far fonder than he is of people, of interacting with them. He joined a club for a certain kind of gentleman, he took dancing lessons, now he sells books in his particular way. He talks to his customers, and listens to them. 

It's not that Crowley doesn’t like humans. He likes their inventiveness, their constant hunger for the new: music, fashions, ways of talking, ways of thinking. But he’s less interested in getting to know them. He supposes that partly it’s the glasses. Humans find it odd and off-putting that he’s never without them, even indoors, even at night. 

But perhaps Crowley should get more used to pretending to be human, if his idea about what their future might hold (at least for a while, eternity is a very long time) is to be true. Perhaps Aziraphale’s ease will rub off on him.

“Would you like to help me look for one?” he adds.

Aziraphale’s face lights up. “On your clever phone?”

“Smartphone, angel.”

The look Aziraphale gives him tells Crowley he has been played. He sits next to Crowley, close on the sofa so they can both see the small screen.

“That one looks lovely.”

Crowley sends the booking request, typing awkwardly as Aziraphale leans against him yawning. For a being who didn’t sleep, before, Aziraphale has quickly gotten used to it, has come to need it. Crowley shifts his arm to pull Aziraphale closer, settle his head on his shoulder, thread his fingers into his soft curls. Aziraphale sighs, wrinkling his nose, settling more comfortably. Crowley’s heart is too big for his chest, the pressure almost painful. Will there be a time when this doesn’t happen? When Aziraphale trusting him like this will feel merely comfortable? He both wants and dreads that day. Aziraphale's warmth is heavy against him. He nods off too, waking only when the bin men make their noisy round in the early hours.

“Angel?” he whispers, “Aziraphale, don’t you want to go up to bed?” 

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale mutters, not waking. Crowley contemplates. He thinks he could carry him, but the stairs are narrow. Being lifted in Aziraphale’s arms and held secure and laid on the bed by him is one of Crowley’s most treasured memories of their first explorations together. He has thought about what it would feel like to be the one lifting, to hold the trusting weight in his arms. He wants that. How he wants it. He eases himself out from under Aziraphale, laying his head back against the sofa. He crouches down. "Let me carry you up to bed," he says, laying a hand on Aziraphale's thigh. 

Aziraphale's eyes half open. "What?" he says.

"Let me take you up to bed."

He frowns. "Carry me? No, I can walk." 

Crowley steps back and stands, disappointed. He holds out his hands. "Come on then." Perhaps there will be another opportunity. There is bound to be. 

Aziraphale takes his hands and gets up.

Denied what he wanted, Crowley takes something else, pulling Aziraphale to him and kissing him. His mouth soft with sleep, Aziraphale doesn't reciprocate but he hums, appreciative.

"Come, angel." Crowley slips his arm round Aziraphale's waist and guides him towards the stairs. In the bedroom, he seats him on the bed and undresses him: his shoes and socks, his waistcoat, his suspenders, his shirt buttons, his trouser buttons. Aziraphale smiles hazily and stands when Crowley asks him to, holding onto Crowley’s shoulder; his trousers fall to his feet, Crowley bends and helps him step out of them. Aziraphale is wearing the seagreen pants. He sits on the bed again, and Crowley lifts his feet onto the mattress, pulls up the covers. He strips quickly and gets into bed behind Aziraphale, settling himself against his back. Aziraphale sighs and reaches back for Crowley's hand, pulling it onto his hip. Crowley presses his mouth to the nape of Aziraphale's neck and slips into sleep.

In the morning, Aziraphale packs a bag. In fact, he packs the brown leather valise Crowley last saw full of books during the war. Being handed it to stow in the car boot so powerfully mirrors that night in the destroyed church that Crowley freezes. Aziraphale slips his hand to the back of his neck, soothing.

“I know, my love. Everything is so full of our history. This is precious to me. So precious.”

“I’ll just fetch a few things at the flat.” Crowley doesn’t have an overnight bag, he’ll have to magic one up. 

Aziraphale steps into the plant room “just to say hello” while he packs a few things into an unremarkable black bag.

“Ready?” he asks, coming into the damp heat and quickly checking for anything amiss. “Behave yourselves,” he tells the plants, not at all sharply.

“Our first holiday,” says Aziraphale as he settles into his seat, and Crowley supposes it is. They have gone places together over the course of their history, but not like this. He reaches for Aziraphale’s hand, settles it on his thigh before starting the engine. 

The drive passes quickly, Aziraphale telling Crowley about a customer he had last week, for whom the perfect book turned out to be Virginia Woolf's  _ Orlando _ . "We should read it, my dear. The main character lives through centuries, as a woman, as a man — it's a wonderful story!" 

Crowley tells about the young person with purple hair he saw pushing a pram in the street the other day. "How delightful!" says Aziraphale, "so inventive, these young people."

Before too long, he’s pulling into the parking lot at the overlook spot, from where they’ll be able to see the sharp-sided ravine curving away. Folklore says it was cut by the devil, nonsense of course. Crowley would probably know if any of his lot had been involved; he certainly hadn’t been.

“Lovely spot,” says Aziraphale, frowning slightly in puzzlement. Crowley usually chooses more secluded places to stop the car.

“Famously,” Crowley agrees, getting out and going round to Aziraphale’s side to open the door for him. The handle used to be a bit sticky and he got into the habit. The handle doesn’t stick anymore, but he enjoys these little gestures, and Aziraphale seems to as well.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, taking Crowley’s hand as he steps out. There is a family at the other side of the lot, picnicking out of the boot of their car. Aziraphale gives them a little wave with his free hand. Crowley gets the familiar wobbly feeling — so so long for Aziraphale to allow himself this, and now he allows it every day.

Crowley leads him over to where a signboard gives a bit of information about the place.

“ Devil’s Dyke !” Aziraphale is as amused as Crowley had known he would be. “Crowley, you wily old serpent.”

The view is very striking, the dyke an almost perfect vee, everything a bright summer green, swathes of flowers in the grass.

“Nothing to do with my lot. My old lot.” He bumps his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. He wants to kiss him. He brings their joined hands up to his mouth instead. “Supposed to be a pretty walk. To a pub, for lunch.”

“You’ve planned this whole outing, haven’t you?”

Crowley shrugs. “I saw the place name in the atlas and I wanted to make you laugh, and then it turned out it’s rather famous for prettiness, and there’s a good pub nearby. So, you know.”

“Yes, I do. You thought it would make me happy, and you were right.” He pulls their hands towards his own mouth. “Shall we take this walk, then?”

The path is easy to follow, although they are perhaps not quite dressed for a country ramble. Crowley contemplates future hiking boots. 

When they are out of sight of anyone else, Aziraphale stops and pulls him into a tender embrace, a sweet languorous kiss. It will never not be thrilling to kiss him, it’s somehow more thrilling here, with a breeze ruffling their hair and the sound of insects in the grass, a blackbird singing somewhere, almost as if they were in a garden.

They walk on, meeting a few people, some with dogs. “Lovely day,” says one man being towed along by an eager greyhound.

“It is! Splendid!” Aziraphale’s smile lights up his face, lights the day even brighter. For so many years he was, not always sad, exactly, but dimmed with worry and strain. Sometimes Crowley brightened his mood. Now he is like the sun for Crowley, and the thought that he contributes to that makes Crowley almost proud. Or perhaps, grateful. 

After their ramble, they come out onto a village street that curves up around a bend, and above the road is a pub, the Shepherd and Dog. The room is full of lunchtime drinkers and diners and a pleasant buzz of conversation as they step in. There’s a menu written on a blackboard: a short list of dishes, and a few puddings. “Pint, angel?” They’re mostly wine and whisky drinkers, but a pint pulled from one of the shining brass taps seems appropriate here.

The publican suggests a local ale, and invites them to sit in the garden out the back, if they like. “It’s very pretty, and there are umbrellas.”

“Wonderful!” says Aziraphale. Crowley often lets him take over with strangers, pleasantries come so much easier to him, and people are always charmed.

“Been walking the Dyke, have you?” the man asks as he carefully fills two pint mugs.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, giving Crowley the flirty eye-flick he used to deploy far more often when he hadn’t admitted to himself what they are to each other. Crowley doesn’t miss before, of course, but that look always sends a tingle up his spine. “We’re on a little holiday. Staying in Brighton tonight.”

“Plenty to do round here as well,” says the publican, extending his hand, “William Gladwish, nice to meet you.”

“Azira Fell,” says Aziraphale, shaking the proffered hand, “and Anthony Crowley. Pleasure!” 

Crowley shakes Gladwish’s hand, feeling rotten about his glasses. 

Another patron comes up to the bar and the publican says: “The garden’s through that door. There’s a menu outside too. I’ll send Chris out to get your order in a few.”

“Thanks,” says Crowley, picking up both pint mugs and following Aziraphale out into the garden.

When they’re settled at a table under an umbrella he says, eyebrow raised above his glasses: “Azira Fell, eh?”

“Well, his name’s Gladwish, so it probably doesn’t seem all that odd to him. I had to think quickly.”

“So the ‘A’ on your sign …?”

“I never had to tell anyone a name. Initials always sufficed.”

“What did the chaps at your dancing club call you?”

“Oh, that was rather formal — Mr Fell, or sometimes late in the evening, just Fell. I did tell one or two it was Azira, the ones I felt closest to.” His eyes take on a hazy backwards looking cast. “Lovely young men. But I don’t think always happy.”

“No, probably not. Bloody ghastly for … those like us, most of the time.”

“Like us?”

“Well, you know. Like what we must seem to strangers.”

Aziraphale reaches across the table to take Crowley’s hand. “I like seeming like that.”

“Yeah. Me too. Queer. Seems to be back in fashion. The word.”

“Suits us,” says Aziraphale.

They’re still holding hands when a very tall young man comes to take their order.

They linger over lunch, and Aziraphale's pudding, and coffee. It’s weekday quiet in the garden, hardly any traffic to be heard on the road. There’s a little stream running down the edge of the lawn, just a murmur behind their conversation. Their joined hands lie on the table, Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s palm with his thumb. The shadows are just beginning to lengthen when they finally get up and go inside to pay the bill.

“Enjoy the rest of your trip,” says William Gladwish. “If you walk back along the road you’ll pass the Spring. Quicker than back via the Dyke path.”

“Bye,” calls Chris, drying glasses.

“Goodbye, thank you for a wonderful lunch,” says Aziraphale, with the kind of smile that has Crowley wondering why everyone he meets isn’t instantly smitten, as Crowley himself had been.

The Spring is housed in a tiny quaint building with a quotation from a Psalm done in tile work. The whole village has a friendly and slightly eccentric air.

“Fulking,” says Crowley.

“What!?” Aziraphale feigns a shocked expression.

“Fulking. Name of the village.”

“Goodness. These English humans. We’ve lived here so long and they still surprise me.”

The rest of the drive to the coast is equally pleasant, the great white cliffs rearing up as they near the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devil’s Dyke is indeed lovely, have a look [ here](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devil%27s_Dyke,_Sussex)


	7. against the wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale turns to him and holds his eyes and takes the single step needed to stand inside Crowley’s space and puts his hands on Crowley’s chest and walks him backwards until his shoulders touch the marble, and stretches up the tiny amount of their height difference and kisses him, his hand behind Crowley’s head stopping it from hitting the tiles. “I’ve wanted to do that for **months** ,” he says, breathless, when his mouth releases Crowley’s.  
> “Months?”  
> “Ever since you did it to me.”  
> If Aziraphale wasn’t holding him upright with his body, his hips to Crowley’s hips, Crowley would sink to the floor in an awkward heap._

The B&B is a tall elegant Georgian house in a leafy Brighton street. The owner, Peter, gives them a smile of recognition, of fellow feeling, as they step in with their bags, and leads them up two flights of stairs. 

“I hope you don’t mind, I put you at the top, for the sea view. And the room has the biggest bathroom. We serve breakfast from eight until ten. Andrew does a wonderful kedgeree, if you want something a bit different. There’s a list of restaurants we like on the desk, just let me know and I can make a booking. Would you like to come down to tea on the terrace, or I can bring it up? Or a cocktail, perhaps?”

It’s a little overwhelming. “We’ll just … freshen up, I think,” says Aziraphale, “and then come down.”

“Lovely,” says Peter, closing the door and leaving them alone.

The room is done all in white, the bed is well-polished brass. The window is tall, and gives a view of the sea above roofs.

“Another new bed!” Aziraphale sits down, drawing Crowley to stand between his knees. “Thank you, my dear, for this beautiful day.” He wraps his arms around Crowley and leans his face against his chest. 

Crowley threads his hands into Aziraphale’s hair and realises it’s longer than he has it usually. “Have you grown this for me, angel?” 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums lazily, “wanted to give you something to get a grip on. And I’ve had no time to go to the barber.”

“I think it was the first. I like it.” Crowley closes his spread fingers and curls them, pulling very gently, dragging an almost-moan from Aziraphale. He tips his head back, looking up at Crowley with hooded eyes. “Freshen up?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

“We could try out the big bathroom.”

“We could.” It’s not something they’ve done together. Aziraphale’s flat, pretty much unimproved since he opened the bookshop, doesn’t even have a bathroom. Crowley urges Aziraphale up and leads him through the door. The room is tiled in palest grey marble and there's a large clawfoot tub in the centre. In Roman times, and in Constantinople, Crowley had regretted not being able to go to the public baths, fearful of drawing unwanted attention. Later, though, he had enjoyed the luxury, especially once indoor plumbing was invented.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “that looks … but perhaps later.”

“Yeah. Not sure I’d be fit for human company afterwards.” 

Aziraphale turns to him and holds his eyes and takes the single step needed to stand inside Crowley’s space and puts his hands on Crowley’s chest and walks him backwards until his shoulders touch the marble, and stretches up the tiny amount of their height difference and kisses him, his hand behind Crowley’s head stopping it from hitting the tiles. “I’ve wanted to do that for  _ months _ ,” he says, breathless, when his mouth releases Crowley’s.

“Months?”

“Ever since you did it to me.”

If Aziraphale wasn’t holding him upright with his body, his hips to Crowley’s hips, Crowley would sink to the floor in an awkward heap.

“Ang—” Aziraphale cuts him off with another deep kiss — and a tiny but unmistakable thrust of his hips.

Crowley has thought about how he pinned Aziraphale to the wall in the corridor at Tadfield, has replayed it in his mind, the way Aziraphale was surprised, but not alarmed, how he felt, so warm and close, his breath in Crowley’s face, his eyes on Crowley’s mouth, his throat right there, right there! his scent, his beloved scent, filling Crowley’s nostrils, richer than he’d ever experienced it. The thought that Aziraphale has also thought about it, and that they waited this long to re-experience it — better, so much better than on that day — makes Crowley laugh, and kiss Aziraphale again.

“Good lord, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, when Crowley lets him catch his breath.

“Mmmmm.” Crowley is mouthing his way down Aziraphale’s throat. If only he could get access to that soft hollow just beneath the knot of his wretched tie, but neither of them has a hand free for that, so he has to press his nose into the top of the space.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale gasps again, twitching his hips into Crowley's even more … wantonly. "I don't think—"

"What, angel?" It's almost a growl. "What?"

"I don't think … ah! … that … I can stop … and go down for … tea …"

Crowley is startled into another laugh. "Me neither, angel." 

Their hips meet as Crowley arches away from the wall and Aziraphale shoves him towards it. Crowley drops his hand to the front of Aziraphale's trousers, palms his hard cock. "May I?" he asks, thumbing the top button open. 

"Yes?" Aziraphale is hesitant. "What … do you want …?"

Crowley adores everything they have done together, the gentle, slow, patient explorations of each other's bodies, but he can't deny he has had … other thoughts, rougher ideas. And it seems Aziraphale may be ready to try, or allow, some of them. He takes hold of his shoulders and manoeuvres him so he is the one against the wall. His eyes widen and then he lowers them, very deliberately, to Crowley's mouth.

"Yes," they both say, Aziraphale agreeing, Crowley seizing that acquiescence. His hands are on Aziraphale's face now and he's kissing him again, hungry; he slips his fingers to the back of Aziraphale's head just in time to stop it hitting the wall. "Careful," he murmurs, trailing his hands down Aziraphale's throat now, down his chest, sinking to his knees, resting his forehead against Aziraphale's stomach, briefly, just to get his breath, before opening all his fly buttons. He's wearing the violet pants; the dramatic shade matches their mood. Crowley leans back a little, to tip his head and meet Aziraphale's eyes, full of heat. His lips are parted, his pink tongue caught between his teeth. His hands are tight on Crowley's shoulders, until he understands the head tilt Crowley gives him and shifts them into his hair.

Crowley puts his mouth on Aziraphale over the violet silk, his hot breath dampening the fabric. Aziraphale gasps and rocks forward and Crowley meets him with his tongue, drawing a moan from Aziraphale, his saliva painting the fabric a darker shade. He has his hands on Aziraphale's hips, but lightly — he doesn't want to hold back his thrusts. He wishes he could dig into his flesh, but Aziraphale is still fully clothed. He presses his thumbs into the soft dips just inside the peaks of his hip bones — to be explored at leisure another time, later — and Aziraphale gasps again and pushes forward, pressing the trapped bulge of his cock into Crowley's waiting mouth. 

Now Crowley wants more, he wants to look, to see. He eases the waistband of the pants down, freeing Aziraphale's perfect cock. Crowley has seen others. He never wanted to touch, but he has looked. He has a frame of reference, points of comparison, and Aziraphale's is perfect. Not large, on the small side even, as if Aziraphale based it on Renaissance paintings, not magazines or films. Of course he would have. These thoughts skitter wildly through Crowley's brain in the instant of looking. He's looked at Aziraphale before, but somehow this is different: the angle, the bright daylight.

"Angel," he breathes. But before he can taste, Aziraphale tugs on his hair, tipping his head back again, making Crowley look into his hooded eyes. He is panting softly, open mouthed. He doesn’t say anything, just nods — permission, entreaty — and then he releases his tight grip, although his fingers remain tangled, and Crowley dips his face back and puts his mouth on Aziraphale, on his skin, even softer than the violet silk. Above him, Aziraphale’s breath comes harsher and he flinches slightly and then pushes forward, slowly, even softly. Crowley tries to meet him with the same softness, to take this cue from Aziraphale, who is already far from anywhere he has been. They both are. Crowley has been on his knees before Aziraphale, but never like this.

Softness turns to urgency as he works his mouth on Aziraphale, and Aziraphale gives himself up to sensation, his voice ragged, gasps and cries loud in the echoing room. And it all washes over Crowley like water, like a wave, flooding his senses with sound, and scent, and taste. Flooding his senses with Aziraphale and only Aziraphale, filling not just his mouth but his entire being until he can no longer tell where he ends. Aziraphale is wound like a spring, tighter and tighter, the muscles of his legs and his belly trembling, his hands locked in Crowley’s hair, a desperate hold causing a little pain that grounds Crowley. 

He can feel Aziraphale is close, but before he can tip completely over the edge, he pulls a hand out of Crowley’s hair and grips his shoulder — hard. His legs are shaking, and so is his voice as he says “Crowley? My dear …” Crowley has heard that thread of panic before. He pulls his mouth away and looks up at Aziraphale.

“Angel?”

“I … I …”

Aziraphale climaxes on Crowley’s face, on his chest. Crowley wishes he could simply be in this moment, savour it, give himself over to it, but Aziraphale needs something else from him. He stands, and catches Aziraphale as his legs give out entirely, and sweeps him into his arms. Aziraphale pants harshly, his head on Crowley’s shoulder, as he carries him to the bed and lays him down, cleaning them both with a tingle of magic. He sits next to him and smooths his hair off his flushed face.

Aziraphale reaches for his hand and holds it against his cheek. His hand is trembling. “Oh, Crowley.”

“You are magnificent, angel.”

“No. I …” But he doesn't continue. He closes his eyes and his breath slows. Crowley strokes his hair and adores him.

After some time, Aziraphale looks up at him. “Would you … would you lie down with me, my dearest?”

“Of course. Would you be more comfortable … that is, may I undress you now, angel?”

Aziraphale nods, and Crowley starts on his shoes, easing them off and wrapping his hands round Aziraphale’s ankles, thumbs stroking in what he hopes is a soothing way, before taking his socks off. He stands up and leans down over Aziraphale, unknotting his tie, and unbuttoning his waistcoat, his shirt. He pushes them open and lets his hands linger on Aziraphale’s hot skin.

“Can you stand up for me?”

Aziraphale nods and stands and lets his trousers drop, Crowley kneels and disentangles his feet. “Do you want …?” He tilts his head at the violet pants, and Aziraphale pushes them down, steps out of them, shrugs his shirt off. Crowley pulls the covers down and Aziraphale gets into bed. He strips quickly and climbs in behind Aziraphale.

“You carried me.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, on the edge of sleep.

“Mmmmm, didn’t think I’d get a chance so soon. I wanted to this morning.”

"Strong …"

Aziraphale fades into sleep. 

Crowley floats on the edge, senses still bathed in Aziraphale: his particular, complex scent, overlaid now with the sharpness of sex; the warmth of his skin; the softness of his body; his bottom fitted trustingly into the bend of Crowley's legs; his chest rising and falling slowly under Crowley's hand.

When Aziraphale needed him, Crowley had let his own arousal go. He's well practised at it, from long millennia of frustration and repression. He never resented Aziraphale, but it was another reason to resent Heaven, which put Aziraphale in his path and then tortured the angel with thou shalt nots.

Thoughts of Heaven return his tired brain to what Aziraphale said, the day of their first picnic. Their meeting, their long association, their friendship, their love, all part of the Plan, God’s Ineffable Plan. Was Crowley not abandoned after all? But he doesn't ask the question, lets his eyes slide shut on Aziraphale's belief rather than his own doubt.

The room is dark when he wakes. Aziraphale has turned towards him, face perfectly calm in sleep, his hands softly curled on Crowley's chest. He has to close his eyes again or risk a sob of pure adoration escaping his mouth. When he can breathe, he opens them. Aziraphale has woken and is gazing at Crowley, his expression intimately tender. 

"My darling," he says, reaching out to touch Crowley's mouth. "My dearest love. My lover."

Crowley lifts his own hand, takes Aziraphale's and presses it to his lips. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. Crowley thinks his voice might not work. At last, Aziraphale says: “Thank you for all your care of me.” Crowley’s heart hurts with how full it is of tenderness for this beautiful being — lovely of form and mind, of heart and soul. He can only nod.

“May I take care of you now, my dear?”

Crowley shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean … that. Unless you …?”

Crowley shakes his head again. He doesn’t think he would survive that storm, now.

“I meant, perhaps a bath?”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale gets out of the bed, leaning down to press his lips to Crowley’s temple, and walks into the bathroom, still a little shaky, perhaps. Crowley hears the water start to run, splashing into the big bath. The scent of lavender drifts on a cloud of steam.

When he gets in, the hot water feels marvellous, the scented steam soothing; Crowley leans back and feels his limbs relax, leftover tension beginning to ebb away.

“Oh, this is wonderful, angel. Come and get in. Plenty of room.”

Aziraphale appears in the doorway. He’s wearing his floral gown, which it seems he packed without Crowley noticing.

“The last time I was in a bath like this was when …”

“Don’t think there’s a rubber duck here,” says Crowley, trying for a lighter mood.

Aziraphale slips the gown off, hangs it on a hook and steps into the bath, turning as if to sit facing him.

“Come over here?” Crowley pulls his knees up, making room for Aziraphale between them. He sits upright with his back to Crowley.

“I kept your underwear on. Even your socks,” he says, running his hands down Crowley’s bony shins.

“Kind of you to spare my blushes, angel.” 

They still haven’t spoken of Crowley’s ordeal in Heaven. Crowley will not volunteer it, although he fears Aziraphale has an idea of what happened, based on immemorial experience of Gabriel’s cold scorn, the derision of Uriel and Sandalphon. Crowley will  _ never _ tell him about the lowly demon allowed to mock him. 

He slips an arm round Aziraphale’s chest and draws him back to lean against him. Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder, turning his face into his neck. They lie and drift in the fragrant water.

Finally, Aziraphale says: “Thank you for today. All of it. You are so good to me.”

Crowley hums acknowledgement, not trusting his voice, as so often when Aziraphale says things like this.

“This really is luxurious.” Aziraphale stretches after another interval of peaceful silence. “We must do this again.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“May I wash your hair, my dear?”

“If I can wash yours first.”

Neither of them is exactly sure how to proceed. There is a shower head looped up over the taps, which escapes Crowley’s grasp when he tries it at first, spraying water all over the room. 

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale, gravely, and they both dissolve into helpless laughter while Crowley tries to bring it under control. Aziraphale, who seldom uses minor miracles for mundane things, uses one now to dry the room, including his gown.

“Now, angel,” says Crowley, brandishing the quiescent shower head, “allow me.” 

Aziraphale tips his head back, baring his distracting throat, and Crowley wets his hair. He sighs with pleasure as Crowley massages the shampoo in. “Oh, my dear. We simply must do this again.”

Crowley rinses the bubbles away and combs his fingers gently through Aziraphale’s curls, anticipating what it will feel like when Aziraphale does the same for him.

Aziraphale steps out of the water and swathes himself in an enormous towel, before crouching at the side of the bath and taking the dangerous shower head in hand. Crowley leans forward to receive the warm spray, followed by Aziraphale’s clever fingers and the herb-scented shampoo. 

“I have a bath at my place,” he says, languid from heat and care, while Aziraphale is rinsing his hair.

“Then we can do this again,” Aziraphale says, smiling. He stands up, takes Crowley’s hand and helps him out of the tub, and hands him a towel, taking another to dry his hair. Crowley sits on the edge of the bath while Aziraphale does it, soaking up all the care, so tender, so intimate. 

Crowley has no idea how other couples behave; he has no need to know, there is only what feels right, what feels true, for them, here, for them, now.

Crowley is almost limp with pleasure by the time Aziraphale finishes combing his fingers gently through his hair, easing out the tangles, humming softly — to himself, to Crowley. Finally he says: "Come to bed now, my love."

Hours have passed since they arrived, the lights of the city are all that's to be seen outside the bedroom window.

In bed, Aziraphale coaxes Crowley to rest his head on shoulder, drying his hair completely with a little miracle of warmth that ripples through him, when he wouldn't have said he could feel more cared for. He's almost asleep when Aziraphale speaks again.

“You overwhelm me,” he says. “I was overcome, against the wall. A little … frightened. I should have known you would never let me fall.”

“You have held me when I was afraid. You have never let me—” his mind trips on the word Aziraphale used “—stumble.”

The kiss Aziraphale presses to the top of Crowley's head is the last thing he is aware of.


	8. on his knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They drift silently together for a time, and then Aziraphale says: “Can you tell me why you made me get up from my knees?”_
> 
> _Crowley’s chest feels tight, as if he can’t draw breath, as if his lungs are being squeezed. This humanish body is so inconvenient, the way emotion alters it._
> 
> _“You’re an angel,” he says. “I’m a demon.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains self-esteem issues in a sexual context. They talk about but can’t entirely resolve them so quickly.

The bright morning light wakes Crowley early, but Aziraphale is already awake, smiling down at him. He bends and kisses him. 

"Good morning, my darling."

Crowley should be used to it, they've been waking up together for weeks, but he thinks he'll never be blasé. Weeks is a mere blink of time.

"Mmmmf." He's never been good at waking, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind. "Whassatime?"

"Early. Eight."

And then he remembers. "They were expecting us. Before we—"

"Got distracted?"

"Mmmmm." The bathroom and all they did there.

"They know our breakfast order. I thought the kedgeree sounded delicious. They don't know how they know it, but they won't worry about that."

"Angel, did you just do a bit of mind control? Positively wicked."

"Nonsense," says Aziraphale, blushing. Crowley kisses the part of him that's nearest, his delicious thigh. Bugger breakfast. 

"Oh, my dear, I don't think …"

Crowley places one last lingering kiss and leans back, regarding Aziraphale through eyes still heavy with sleep. "Yeah. We've got a bed at home. Two beds," he says. "Tell me about this kedgeree."

"You'll like it, I think. Smoked fish, eggs, rice and spices."

"Hungry, are you?" says Crowley, wickedly, in hopes of that pretty blush spreading over Aziraphale's face and neck again. He is not disappointed.

"I am, indeed." Aziraphale pushes a hand through Crowley's hair and tugs on it once before getting out of bed. Crowley stays where he is, for the pleasure of watching Aziraphale dress. Today's pants are the sober slate-grey of Crowley's bedsheets. Aziraphale holds his eyes as he covers them up under his layers. No waistcoat, Crowley notes. Finally, he gets up too and dresses hastily, reluctantly putting on his glasses as they leave the room.

Downstairs, Peter the host is as chatty as before, but doesn't mention last night. "Lovely day," he says, bringing them a pot of coffee and a basket of rolls. "Perfect for a walk by the sea! I'll bring the kedgeree, Andrew was so pleased you ordered it; it's a bit unusual. He gets so tired of doing bacon and eggs every day." He bustles off and Aziraphale reaches for a roll while Crowley pours coffee.

The kedgeree is delicious. Andrew the chef emerges from the kitchen to ask them how they liked it, standing a bit shyly next to a beaming and clearly besotted Peter. 

After breakfast they return to the room to fetch their things. Aziraphale steers Crowley into the bathroom, ostensibly to fetch his gown, but really to kiss him against the marble tiles one more time, his smile full of promise.

They walk along the front next to the sea, and descend so they can crunch over the beach’s shingle. The sea is a moody green, small waves rattling the stones. Crowley picks up a nicely shaped pebble and slips it into his pocket. 

Back on the pavement, they stop at a posh little gelateria for ice cream cones, not their usual: pistachio and bitter chocolate for Crowley, salted caramel and vanilla for Aziraphale. They don't walk hand in hand, but their hands brush, their pinkie fingers twine together. The sea breeze lifts Aziraphale's hair, Crowley has tied his back.

The last time he was at the seaside, he was shepherding Warlock, a hatpin keeping Nanny's hat in place, the child's chubby knees grazed from a tumble, his ice cream melting over his fist. It was exhausting, as he complained to Aziraphale afterwards, sitting on his sofa in the little cottage drinking whisky. 

Their lives have been such a rollercoaster over the last few frantic years, it's hard to believe that they have all the time they want to themselves now.

"You took Warlock to the seaside, didn't you?" says Aziraphale.

"I was just thinking about that. What a day! One of the more challenging ones."

"You were very good with him. He adored you. When he was with me, it was always: Nanny says this, and Nanny told me that and Nanny lets me do this."

"You think he didn't chatter about Brother Francis and what you'd showed him? He particularly loved catching slugs on your hostas."

Aziraphale laughs. "The hostas I would have killed if not for your help."

"We were both pretty far from our comfort zones."

"I was, certainly," says Aziraphale. "I think you knew what you were doing far more than you give yourself credit for."

"Looking after a child is mostly wiping things and answering questions, I found. I wasn’t bad at it, I suppose."

"You are very patient. And very good with questions."

The ice creams are finished. They stroll on a while, and then Aziraphale says: “I really liked that village yesterday. I got a good feeling from it.”

“Fulking? You felt love there?” Crowley is intrigued by this gift of Aziraphale’s, however long it had taken him to realise — or admit to himself — that what he felt around Crowley was different from what he felt around other beings, ethereal and corporeal.

“I’m not sure. We weren’t there long enough for that. But it did feel, comfortable, I suppose. I can’t really explain it. We went into one place, spoke to two people. That’s not enough to judge.”

“I liked it too. And not just for the joke of the name. The names.”

“Should we drive back through on our way home?” says Aziraphale. “Would you like to, my dear?”

“Yes, I would. Shall we go now?”

So they head back to the village that they only really got a glimpse of before. This time they stroll the short length of the high street. There is the one pub, one shop/post office, one ancient church and one less ancient chapel, and the quaint tiled spring house they saw yesterday. The houses are a pleasant mix of styles behind stone walls and hedges, their gardens bursting with flowers. The few people they encounter offer friendly greetings.

Crowley glances at Aziraphale, but they don’t really talk while walking. At the car, he says: “Back home?”

The day is sultry, oppressive. Aziraphale takes off his coat before getting in, leaving him in his shirtsleeves.

“Thank you for this holiday, my dear,” he says, leaning across the gap between the seats and kissing Crowley sweetly, gentle hand cupping his jaw, fingers lingering briefly on his snake-sigil.

In London, Aziraphale asks to go to Crowley’s flat. Crowley is not surprised, he’d signaled as much with the slate-grey pants; it’s becoming a sort of code that Aziraphale uses to tell Crowley things — or Crowley thinks he does.

“Why have you never shown me your bathroom, my dear?” he says, standing in that room's doorway. It’s in the same style as the rest of the flat — pretentious modern: black tile, enormous shower that Crowley’s never used, bath with jet inlets that is quite fun to lounge in.

“Well, you don’t have one, so I thought you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Fair point,” says Aziraphale. “I’m old-fashioned. And lazy, I suppose, so I never had one put in, when they became all the rage. And adding one at my place, think of the dust! The noise!” He shudders a bit theatrically. “I’m interested now. I did like bathing with you. Very much indeed.”

He turns away from the bathroom and walks into the bedroom. “But there’s something I want to do first.” He bends down and picks up Crowley’s Louboutin shoes, opens the drawer where the other things are. “Will you, my darling?” He holds the shoes out to Crowley. “For me?”

Crowley nods, takes the shoes and stockings and garter from Aziraphale, kissing him as he does. “Of course. Will you help me?” He hands the things back to Aziraphale. “But there’s something I want to do first.” Aziraphale is puzzled, but a smile breaks when Crowley reaches for his shirt cuffs. “May I?”

Aziraphale just raises an eyebrow, which Crowley takes as permission. He stands quite still, still smiling, as Crowley rolls up his shirt sleeves, revealing the creamy skin and fine muscles usually hidden beneath. For some reason, even though he sees Aziraphale naked every day now, he will never get enough of him with rolled-up sleeves. A small, needy sound escapes his mouth as he finishes and wraps his hands around Aziraphale’s forearms. Aziraphale kisses him; Crowley can feel the meeting of both their smiles.

He gets undressed quickly, stripping to his pants; Aziraphale's pursed mouth tells him to take those off too. He didn't do that when he put the stockings on before. When he is naked, Aziraphale hands him the garter belt and he steps into it, settling the black lace on his hips, the clips dangling down his thighs. He sits on the bed and Aziraphale picks up his left foot, cradling it in his hands. He slips the stocking onto Crowley's foot and eases it up his calf, over his knee, frowning slightly as he manipulates the clips that hold it in place. When both stockings have been put on, he picks up the shoes and slips them onto Crowley's feet. They're absurd, really, and Crowley loves them. 

He starts to stand up, but Aziraphale presses down on his knees to keep him seated, pushes them apart and shuffles closer, still kneeling. The bed is high, his face is on the same level as Crowley's cock. His hard, leaking cock. Aziraphale slides his hands up his thighs, whispering over the nylon, dipping his thumbs into the creases of his groin, pushing his fingers under the straps of the garter. His lips are parted, his tongue darts out to moisten them, and he bows his head and  _ kisses _ the head of Crowley's cock. Crowley draws a harsh, shocked breath and Aziraphale tips his head back to look at him, a frown between his brows. "My darling?" he asks.

He's not sure he can stand this, his angel  on his knees before him. But he knelt before Aziraphale yesterday and felt only pleasure and desire. "Please …" he says, not sure what he wants to say. _Please don't? Please do?_

Aziraphale's hands are warm on his skin, moving gently. He doesn't push, just waits for Crowley.

"Please come up here?"

Aziraphale looks at him with infinite compassion and stands up. Crowley draws his feet, still in the spike heels, up onto the bed and shifts backwards; Aziraphale follows. “What is it, Crowley?”

“You, on your knees … feels wrong … can’t explain.”

“But you were, yesterday.”

Crowley isn’t looking directly at Aziraphale, until his chin is grasped, gently but firmly, and he is forced to meet his eyes.

“Yeah. I liked it.” He wants to look away, but he can’t, he won’t. 

“Mightn’t I?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t either, yet.” Aziraphale’s thumb traces Crowley’s mouth. “I will stay here with you. But I … I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself, my love.”

A hot blush has swept over Crowley’s face. And his cock is no longer hard at all. He flops against the pillows. 

Aziraphale’s hands reach for his tie and he pulls the bow undone. He unbuttons his shirt, but doesn’t take it off. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed and takes off his shoes and socks, stands and steps out of his trousers, pushes the slate-grey pants off, and returns to Crowley, shirt hanging open. He doesn’t say anything as he straddles Crowley, and leans in and very deliberately lifts his hands onto the pillows above his head and holds them there while he kisses him, slowly, deeply. Crowley feels himself relax — and his arousal begins to return. Aziraphale smiles, a bit sly, satisfied.

He moves backwards till he can grasp Crowley’s ankles, and lifts his feet further up the bed, so his knees are raised. Then, looking very intently at Crowley, he pushes his knees down, splaying them open, giving himself access to continue what Crowley interrupted. Before placing his mouth on Crowley, he says, softly, but very firmly: “I love this, you know. I’m doing what I  _ want _ to.”

The feel of his mouth, more emphatic than the first time he did this, drags a moan from Crowley. Aziraphale’s thumbs press into the creases where his thighs meet his groin. That touch too is insistent, not the least bit tentative, and his fingers push under the garter straps again, his neat nails digging into Crowley’s skin. Crowley imagines the red crescents they will leave; he wishes they would fade more slowly than they probably will. And then Aziraphale removes one hand, and pulls off Crowley’s cock — Crowley almost whines. “Give me your hand.” Aziraphale doesn’t even lift his face, his hot breath whispers over where his mouth has just been. “Crowley? Give me your hand.” Crowley does as he’s told, and Aziraphale pulls it to the back of his own head. Crowley threads his fingers into Aziraphale’s curls, and Aziraphale grunts, pleased, and presses up into the cup of Crowley’s palm briefly. Then his mouth is on him again, and Crowley tugs on Aziraphale’s hair, dragging a deep hum of pleasure from him that Crowley can feel all the way to his shoulders, can feel vibrating in his still-bound wings. His hips jerk, and the pressure of Aziraphale’s hands on him lessens, telling Crowley: “Yes! Don’t hold back!” as plainly as if he had spoken in words. Crowley thrusts up again — and sees the dome of the heavens, before the iridescent darkness of his wings blots out the stars, a gleaming black rainbow enclosing Aziraphale with him in a private firmament. His throat is jagged with the cry that rips from him as his release paints his angel’s chest. Aziraphale’s smile lights the velvet blackness as his wings eclipse Crowley’s and bathe them both in pure light.

Neither of them can look away from the other as they return to their corporeal selves, panting harshly. Aziraphale remains on his knees in the vee of Crowley's legs. He rubs his fingers through the come on his chest and sucks them. Crowley has to close his eyes or risk immolation. "Have a little mercy, angel," he whispers, hoarse. Aziraphale just smiles round his fingers. And leans forward, placing his hands on Crowley's shoulders, lifting him up and kissing him. Crowley can taste something different in the familiar taste of Aziraphale's mouth — oh, he can taste himself. He clutches at Aziraphale's shoulders, fingers digging in hard. When Aziraphale finally releases him, he flops into the pillows again, his heart only beginning to return to a steadier rhythm.

"My magnificent lover," he says, gazing up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's expression contains multitudes: passion, possession, pride. Above all, tender intimacy.

He lies down, acknowledging the little buzz of cleaning magic Crowley is just able to summon. Crowley's legs slide down onto the bed, his ankles aching. He likes a reminding ache. Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s chest, his warm breath ghosting across his skin. “Thank you, my love,” he says, as he always does. 

They drift silently together for a time, and then Aziraphale says: “Can you tell me why you made me get up from my knees?”

Crowley’s chest feels tight, as if he can’t draw breath, as if his lungs are being squeezed. This humanish body is so inconvenient, the way emotion alters it.

“You’re an angel,” he says. “I’m a demon.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, but his breath hitches. Crowley waits for him.

“I am your lover,” he says, finally. “You are my lover.” His voice rises, as it does when he’s trying to make Crowley understand something difficult. 

Crowley doesn’t deny this, but it’s so hard to let go of six thousand years of anger and shame and longing; six thousand years of knowing he was not worthy of the one being he craved. Hard to let go of a thousand years of service as a way — the only way — to express that longing. Almost impossible to let go of everything his whole existence has taught him about his place in creation, his lowly place, a mere serpent before the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He doesn’t say any of this; he knows it would make Aziraphale sad, bring on self-recrimination, make him say, as he has before, that he treated Crowley appallingly over all these centuries, when he didn’t, when he gave Crowley so much, as much as he could, even if it was never enough to sate Crowley’s enormous hunger. And now he gives Crowley everything of himself. It’s just that there are some things Crowley can’t take from him.

“Yes,” says Crowley. “But we were … the other forever. I can’t just … I can’t—”

“Shhh, darling,” Aziraphale soothes. “I know. It’s too soon.”

“Yes,” Crowley agrees. “Too soon.” He might never be ready for it, but it would be cruel to tell Aziraphale so.

He is exhausted.

“Did you want to bath?” He doesn’t think he could stand up, let alone walk across the room.

“Another time,” says Aziraphale. “Plenty of time. Let me undress you, and then you can sleep.” He sits up, gets off the bed and leans over Crowley. His warm hands wrap around Crowley’s ankles, and he eases the shoes off his feet. He unclips the stockings, fumbling a bit, and rolls them down and off. His fingers curl under the lace of the garter belt. Crowley lifts his hips and Aziraphale pulls it off. Crowley is naked. Aziraphale shrugs off his shirt. They are both naked. Crowley’s tired brain can’t process why this is snagging in it.

“Let me turn the covers down, my dear.”

Crowley sits, scoots to the edge of the bed and stands up. Aziraphale pulls him against himself, holding him with an arm round his waist while he tugs the bedclothes down. He lowers Crowley onto the bed again.

“Sleep, my love.”

Crowley nods and lies down, curled on his side, and Aziraphale walks round the bed and gets in behind him, pulling Crowley into his softness. 

Crowley sleeps.


	9. ineffable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“May I try to explain how I understand it?”  
>  Crowley nods. Perhaps Aziraphale can’t see that in the darkness. “Yes.”  
> Aziraphale reaches for his hand, pulls it close. “Well,” he says, “I am an angel. I can’t defy God—”_

The room is dark when he wakes for some reason, still wrapped in Aziraphale’s soft warmth. Aziraphale’s hand is under Crowley’s hair, his lips on his nape. Crowley turns his head to see him.

“’Zirapha’e?”

“Hmm, darling?”

“You awake?” Silly question.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Di’n’ you wanna read?” Crowley’s mouth is too soft with sleep to form words.

“No. I’m watching you. Watching over you. Do you mind?”

“Nah. ’S nice.”

“Thinking about what you said, about … you know …”

“Kneeling?”

“Yes.” There’s a tightness, a thread of pain in Aziraphale’s voice. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want—”

“But what about what  _ I _ want?”

Crowley shouldn’t be having this conversation with his back to Aziraphale. He turns over. “I was trying to say, I don’t want to cause you pain.”

“Oh. Forgive me, please. I shouldn’t try to … make this about me.”

“It is very hard to unlearn that feeling. To unlearn my place.”

“Have I ever made you feel …?”

“Unworthy? No. Plenty of other angels and demons to do that. And God. The whole damn shooting match.”

Aziraphale is quiet, and then he says, tentative: “But perhaps not God?” 

He doesn’t explain, lets Crowley consider. Waits for him, until finally Crowley says: “The whole ‘ineffable plan’ thing again?” 

He has thought about what Aziraphale said in the car that day. He’s been thinking of it. He thought about it just yesterday. Was it really only yesterday in a white seaview room?

“May I try to explain how I understand it?”

Crowley nods. Perhaps Aziraphale can’t see that in the darkness. “Yes.”

Aziraphale reaches for his hand, pulls it close. “Well,” he says, “I am an angel. I can’t defy God—”

“And remain an angel.”

“Yes. But I kept seeing you, wanting to see you. And we had our Arrangement. Heaven and Hell might not always have noticed, but God knew.”

“Omniscient.”

“Exactly. So seeing you, spending time with you, collaborating with you, can’t have been wrong.”

“Or you would have fallen.” Crowley’s voice catches on that.

“But I didn’t.”

“Not even when we tried to raise Warlock together.”

“Yes. And even though, as it turned out, that project was actually … irrelevant, God sees all. God knew what we were trying to do. God didn’t stop us.” Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand to his mouth and kisses the palm. “And a certain demon, who had been on Earth as long as a certain angel, was tasked by his side with delivering the Antichrist.”

“Cocked that right up, didn’t I?”

“But that ‘cock-up’ was what saved the world, wasn’t it? Because that meant Adam Young was raised by his ordinary parents, and we know what that meant, in the end.”

“Good kid.”

“He turned out well, with no help from either side.”

“And we got Warlock.” Crowley closes his eyes, afraid his emotion might spill out.

“We got Warlock. And I think, my dear, that spending all that time so close, thinking about preventing the outcome that Heaven and Hell wanted, meant that we were in the right place to … help, when the time came.”

“And God never stopped us.” 

“God never stopped us.”

Crowley feels his entire being go completely still as he takes this in. 

A tempter-serpent of a demon met an angel. The demon fell in love with the angel, and followed the angel around throughout history. And messed up the one job Hell needed done right. God knew. God saw it all. And God never stopped them. Ineffable.

Behind the lids of his closed eyes, he sees the whole of the heavens, all the stars he helped build and put in their places.

He sees the whole of history, all he has seen, and done, throughout Time. He sees Aziraphale and Crowley throughout Time. He sees them meet, and meet again. He sees them watching God’s wrath take effect in Mesopotamia. He sees the heavens open and rain slashing down like knives, like water poured from a bucket. He sees the water rising and swallowing up the land, swallowing all the people, all the  _ children _ . 

He remembers his rage, how he cursed God. But God didn’t listen. He remembers how Hell and all the demons laughed, how they danced as the waters rose and swallowed the land and all the disobedient humans. He remembers how that felt, to be so at odds with his side. And the other side. He remembers how he realised it was all his fault, for whispering to the Woman, for cajoling her to taste what had been forbidden. How that led to being swallowed up by God’s wrath. He sees himself in the mountain cave where he went to think about what he’d done. To rage against God for decades. God didn’t listen, but God didn’t destroy him. God left him alone to think, and to curse himself. And when he was done cursing himself, God let him slowly accept himself, and let him see that the humans had survived, and gone about their business, just as imperfect as they had been before the Flood. Much later, God let him see that the humans were offered a new way, were offered love and salvation, if they chose to accept it. And again God let him actually be present as that Plan played out, whatever Crowley thought of it.

And God let him see Aziraphale again. God let him see Aziraphale again and again, and keep seeing him, and loving him, and serving him, and saving him, until they were both ready to play their parts. In the Great Ineffable Plan.

Crowley, unmoving, unbreathing, sees all of this, the entire sweep of his history, and Aziraphale’s history, and the history of humanity, these frail, fallen humans, trying to live in the world God had given them, even after Crowley caused them to be stained with Sin. Stained with Sin and brushed with curiosity and intelligence and questioning. Just like Crowley.

Crowley opens his eyes in the void and feels his true form stretch out, his entire being reach out. And he sees Aziraphale’s true form, his opposite, pure to his sullied, obedient to his defiant. He reaches out, and Aziraphale reaches out and they touch, their true selves touch. And God does not cast them down.

Crowley looks down, and sees his corporeal body, and Aziraphale’s, turned towards each other, together. God has not cast them down. Has not damned Aziraphale, an angel, for consorting with Crowley, a demon.

Crowley feels a great peace wash through his being. He feels six thousand years of anger and self-loathing and service and love all mixed up inside himself. He had a place. He had a part to play. He played his part, as well as he was able, even though he didn’t understand it. He played his part despite what Hell wanted. The angel had a place. The angel played his part, even though it meant defying the archangels.

And now they are together. The angel loves the demon, and can admit it to himself, and tell the demon. The demon loves the angel and has been able to tell him what has always been true. And is allowed to show him, in many more ways than he ever has.

And still the angel has not been cast down.

And he feels this ring through his entire being: “THANK YOU.” 

He doesn’t know if he says it or if it is said to him.

“THANK YOU.” 

At last, Crowley comes back into his so-human, breathing, heart-beating, blood-pumping, pain-feeling earthly corporation. He opens his unchanging yellow eyes and looks into the bluegreen changeable eyes that are looking into his, that have looked into his throughout history, even when he tried to hide his in shame.

He lies and gazes into Aziraphale’s eyes, and feels their souls touching, as their true forms touched in the heavens. He reaches out and places his hand flat on Aziraphale’s chest, to feel his so-human heart also pumping.

“I have loved you forever.” 

“And I was not cast down.”

“I fulfilled my part.”

“You did. And you helped me fulfil mine. I didn’t understand.”

“Of course we didn’t. It was  ineffable .”

“You loved me, even when I was not brave enough.”

“I had no choice. I was meant to, all along. You  _ were _ brave, you had to defy Heaven.”

They fall silent then, and lie gazing into each other, their souls touching, through the darkness and into the light.

Everything is different now. 

But they are the same angel and the same demon who met on a wall and loved each other throughout history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter is quite short, I’ll post the concluding chapter tomorrow.
> 
> And, I always love to hear your thoughts, come and chat in the comments.


	10. everything has changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What are you thinking about, angel?”  
>  “How completely everything has changed for us. Only weeks ago I would never have imagined — dared to imagine — this. And all this feels so … right, now. Did we really spend six thousand years alone? I didn’t know how lonely I was, how starving.” He rubs his thumb along Crowley’s hairline. “You did know, didn’t you, darling?”_

How do you get up and put on clothes and go out into the busyness of London when everything has changed?

If you are an angel and a demon who helped avert the Apocalypse, you have some experience.

It is not like that morning after the first night they ever spent in Crowley’s flat together, putting on each other’s faces, in order to face their fates in hellfire and holy water. They had been terrified that morning. Crowley had hardly dared to speak, afraid that he would lose control and weep; Aziraphale had kept up a stream of nervous chatter, as if afraid of the same thing.

It is different from that other morning here in this bed, when they awoke after a night of learning to touch each other in ways they had yearned to, a night of pushing themselves past their hesitance and of asking for and receiving permission to experience the adoration of each other’s corporeal forms.

It is not like those mornings, and the now many other mornings they have had together in this bed, and in other beds, when everything has changed for them. And yet, it  _ is _ like those other mornings. They are in their familiar bed, looking into each other’s familiar, beloved eyes. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed. 

“Crowley? My love?” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle.

Crowley shakes himself out of his semi-trance. “Angel.” His voice is hoarse. Was it really only yesterday, in this same bed, that Aziraphale’s lovemaking tore a shout from him that rang across space? Everything that came after, in the darkness, has not eclipsed the memory of Aziraphale saying fiercely: “I love this, you know”. What came after, in the darkness, was Aziraphale’s way of telling him, obliquely but clearly: “You are not unworthy. Not to me. Not to God.” He doesn’t know if that means he will be able to accept Aziraphale on his knees yet. You can’t change overnight something you have believed almost since time began. But Crowley knows he has to try. Just as he had to try to accept Aziraphale’s feelings about the parts of his body he had always hated. As he  _ has _ come to accept those feelings. It would be unfair to Aziraphale not to try and keep trying. He closes his eyes, hearing once again the echo of “THANK YOU”.

“Crowley?”

“Thank you for everything, for yesterday, for everything you told me. Everything you do for me.” He wants to touch Aziraphale’s mouth, which has given him so much. So much pleasure, such reassurance. He reaches out, drags his fingers across Aziraphale’s lips. “My angel,” he says.

Aziraphale smiles. “My Crowley.”

How do you get up and put on clothes and go out? Perhaps you don’t.

Aziraphale sits up in bed. “Do you want to get up? I don’t think I do. What do you say to a quiet day in? I have a book I want to finish; perhaps you’d like to sleep some more?”

There’s nothing Crowley wants more than to stay in bed, pillowing his head on Aziraphale’s thigh while he reads, perhaps running a hand through Crowley’s hair, perhaps occasionally chuckling over something in his book, while Crowley sleeps and wakes and sleeps again, secure in Aziraphale’s warmth, wrapped in his presence.

“Yes,” he says, “that is what I want. To stay here with you. Thank you.”

"Good," says Aziraphale, "I'll just fetch my book."

He gets out of bed and crouches by his valise. Crowley shamelessly admires his lovely bottom. Aziraphale pulls his book from the bag, and a pair of pants, the gold of a sunset, or of a new morning. He steps into them and gets back into bed, piling a heap of pillows against the back-punishing carved headboard. The book is smallish, a novel.

"What's that?" Crowley asks.

"Georgette. I've been rereading her since I sold one to that widow, d'you remember, my dear?"

"Oh? I know so little about modern literature," says Crowley, getting comfortable with his head in Aziraphale's lap. That’s not really true; he mostly wants to listen to Aziraphale explain this book, which is a mystery to him.

"Georgette Heyer. Romances set in the Recency period. Dashing gentlemen, spirited ladies. Such fun. And really, she is very good at the details."

"Dashing gentlemen, eh?"

"Quite dashing. Not quite as dashing as a gentleman I knew. He rescued me from a prison, you know."

"Did he now? Bit before the Recency, angel."

"Well, if you want to split hairs, my dear."

Aziraphale opens the book, and drops his hand gently to Crowley's head, scratching lightly through his hair. Crowley thinks he knows how cats must feel. He'd purr if he could.

The light in the room is different when he opens his eyes again and looks up at Aziraphale. He has set the book aside, his hand has stilled in Crowley’s hair.

“What are you thinking about, angel?”

“How completely  everything has changed for us. Only weeks ago I would never have imagined — dared to imagine — this. And all this feels so … right, now. Did we really spend six thousand years alone? I didn’t know how lonely I was, how starving.” He rubs his thumb along Crowley’s hairline. “You did know, didn’t you, darling?”

Crowley hums agreement. Talking about his feelings all that time will make them both sad, and he doesn’t want that. He tilts his head further into Aziraphale’s hand, greedy for more. 

“I’ve also been thinking,” Crowley says. “About what we can do now. Now that everything has changed. I think I really would like to leave London.”

“Leave London?”

Aziraphale sounds more surprised than Crowley expected. It’s not the first time he has mentioned this. He slips out from under Aziraphale’s hand so he can sit up and face him. 

“I want us to have a home. Together. Our home.” There’s a worried crease between Aziraphale’s brows. Crowley hurries on. “I love your shop, and your little flat, I do, but I don’t entirely fit there—”

“My dear—” Aziraphale interrupts, but Crowley keeps going. “I don’t feel unwelcome, but I am a visitor there. And this gloomy place doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s never been right, for you. You deserve better. I don’t care about it, but you love your shop. And now you even like selling books, so it’s a terrible time to think of leaving …” He trails off.

“I do love my shop,” Aziraphale says, “but you’re right. It doesn’t really fit us both. There’s nowhere for your plants, for one thing. And this place is … gloomy. We  _ should _ find somewhere more suitable. I could sell books anywhere, I think.”

“In a village?”

“Yes, why not.”

Crowley feels a grin taking over his face. “In Fulking, maybe?”

“It did have rather a good feeling about it.” 

“I thought so too, even though I don’t have that angel-sense.”

"And you, my dear, could you do what you have been thinking of, with plants, in Fulking?"

"Yes, I think so. I don't know exactly what yet. But I would like to try having a garden."

"Crowley! That would be splendid."

Crowley can't quite picture himself gardening, digging in the dirt, on his knees pulling up weeds. So unlike anything he’s done before, despite his houseplants. He'll need some different clothes for a start. But he does want to try. To make a garden for Aziraphale would be very satisfying. 

And being back in a garden would heal some of Crowley's own hurts, maybe. Soothe his ancient pain and loss.

Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand. "It'll be a new beginning — another new beginning — for us."

They sit together in their bed contemplating their future, until Crowley says: “Would you like to try my bathtub?”

“I would, very much.”

Lying in the bath, gently pummeled by the water jets, leaning against Crowley’s chest, bracketed by Crowley’s legs, Aziraphale sighs with contentment. “We must have one of these, wherever we go, my dear, I insist.”

“You’ve become quite the hedonist, haven’t you, angel?” Crowley strokes Aziraphale’s chest, drops a kiss into his hair.

“I always was. I have no idea why I didn’t think of sleeping and bathing as well.”

“Silly angel.” 

Everything has changed, but they are still themselves, and wherever they go, whatever is next, they will be together. 

Crowley is content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line that follows “Now we both together” in the poem is: “Will start a new beginning”. That’s what the next story will be about.
> 
> Thank you for reading this one, come chat to me in the comments, if you like!  
> Or on tumblr, where I’m kate2kat.


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